lovelorn liars
by shen salazar
Summary: lay down and rest, you’ve loved enough. — jprb slash. canon-divergence. hanahaki au.
1. deep hook marks in rubber lips

**notes.**

 _this is all the warning you'll ever get: this is slash. it's bl. it's yaoi. it's boyxboy. it's hella fucking gay. don't like, don't read, and please do it silently. i don't need your sad biased opinion i don't need your petty homophobic flames, thanks._

 _this is a **HANAHAKI AU,** an au wherein there's a fictional disease in which the victim coughs up flowers when they suffer from unrequited love. take note: unrequited, meaning one-sided. it only ends when the beloved returns their feelings (romantic love only; strong friendship is not enough), or when the victim dies. it can be cured through surgical removal, but when the infection is removed, the victim's romantic feelings for their love also disappear, or they forget all about the person they are in love with. it varies. to be fully cured, the victim must also believe that their feelings are returned. if they don't, they die. ( c. fanlore-org )_

 _i think you already know who's having the disease, is that even a surprise anymore?_

 _( clarification: even though the love is requited, if the victim of the disease does not believe that he is loved back, they will not be cured. )_

—

 **LOVELORN LIARS**

—

 **01.** _deep hook marks in rubber lips_

—

Walburga Black died when Regulus was only seven. His brother, Sirius, was eight. The younger Black sibling does not remember much of their mother — she was strict, yes, very much so, to the point that Regulus and Sirius were never given the luxury of being normal, functioning children.

She forbid her sons to communicate with the lower class, the filth, which often left her lips as mudbloods. She was cruel, but she wasn't heartless. Not as everyone perceived her to be.

Walburga may not love her sons, but she cared for them.

When Regulus asked his father why their mother died, Orion only gave him a passing, melancholic look that spoke about a thousand words to nothing. Although Regulus didn't need to ask anymore. He had overheard, from a gossiping group of women as they passed by that Walburga Black died because of Hanahaki Disease. Some said Walburga was a fool, some thought her story was heartbreaking, and some didn't really care at all.

Regulus was a smart child; he knew what that meant.

Their mother, Walburga Black, died because Orion Black did not love her enough. (Or maybe not at all.)

—

"Reggie, what are you doing?"

Regulus blinked at the direction of his older brother, putting down his brush with a sigh, "Painting, Siri."

Sirius scrunched up his nose, "Flowers?"

"What's wrong with flowers?"

"They're.. I don't know. Weird. Why are you painting flowers?"

Regulus looked at the half-finished piece in front of him, eyes glazed on the warm sunset hue of the daffodils, "They're pretty."

Sirius looked at his brother like he couldn't understand what he was saying, and a moment later, the Black heir seemed to have come to a certain realization, staring at the almost dried colour of the blood smeared on the canvas, his mouth turning downwards in the slightest frown.

"If you say so."

The painting is finished by the end of the month, the crimson red replaced by green.

—

It was the first time Regulus stepped into Muggle London.

Orion, his father, had taken him and Sirius out to visit their uncle, Alphard Black, who requested to meet them. It startled Regulus at first to know that one of his relatives lived in Muggle London, and it turns out that their uncle was almost blasted off the Black Tapestry, but was not. To why, they didn't know.

Muggles were odd, Regulus concluded. They have a completely bland way of living, and they tend to perform in the streets where their hats were taken off filled with things that were similar to knuts.

A muggle approached them and gave a lopsided but kind grin. He was holding out a blue rose, "Happy Hearts Day, kid."

Orion pulled him away from the muggle before Regulus even had a chance to reply.

—

Regulus observed that Sirius liked singing.

He's in his studio that night, working on a piece consisting of a simple blue rose. It's nothing special; just something to pass the time. But somehow Sirius was there, on a stool, humming faintly to a tune Regulus has never heard before. It sounds muggle, Regulus thinks, recalling a song he heard from the street performers when he and Orion passed by Muggle London.

"What's that song?"

Sirius perks up at the question, cocking his head, "Er, nothing. I just made the tune up."

Regulus blinked.

"It sounds muggle," he blurts out, "maybe you should try listening to their music, you may like them." Regulus doesn't think much of this when he said it, he doesn't even know why he did.

"Is that okay?" asked Sirius.

"What is?"

"Knowing... muggle stuff."

Regulus remembers the rose that the muggle attempted to give him.

"Yeah, it's okay, I think."

Sirius beams.

He starts to come at Regulus' studio regularly and sing muggle songs.

It becomes a routine for the both of them.

—

Regulus was ten when Sirius got his Hogwarts letter.

He remembers the excited face of his brother when he received it. Sirius' whole face lighted up like it always did when he was singing, and Regulus didn't know what was so exciting about the school, but he was happy for Sirius. He had always wanted to attend Hogwarts ever since he found Regulus reading about it, deeply enamoured by the promise of magic.

"I'm finally going to Hogwarts, Reg! Can you believe it, really?"

Orion placed his teacup down, "We can, in fact, believe it, Sirius. Now hurry along and _stop_ bouncing, we need to shop for your things."

Sirius grumbled in response and sent a pleading look at Regulus. Orion noticed their exchange and sighed, "Fine. Regulus can come."

Sirius visibly lightened up and started hopping upstairs dragging Regulus behind him to get dressed.

"Sirius, I said stop bouncing like an idiot." Orion calls after them.

"I'm not bouncing!" Sirius yells back.

Orion just sighs and fixes his robe.

The Blacks arrive at Diagon Alley shortly, and it takes them very little time to shop for the designated items on Sirius' list. They went for the cauldrons last, and Regulus noticed that inside the shop, it smelled like fresh, minted herbs, like an actual apothecary. He admired the fleeting solitude until he heard Sirius shout from the other side of the room.

Rushing to his brother, Regulus finds him apologizing to a boy who looked as young as Sirius, with untamed dark hair and circle rimmed glasses.

"Sirius, what did you do now?"

"I just knocked off some stuff and it kind of fell on this guy, it's not my fault, Reg!" Sirius turned to the bespectacled boy, "Really sorry though, mate. Wasn't intentional, swear."

The boy accepted Sirius' apology rather quick, and they both just laughed it off.

"It's nothing. I'm James, by the way. James Potter."

"Sirius Black. This is my cute little brother, Regulus."

Regulus ignored Sirius' comment and nodded towards the Potter boy. If the Black siblings were ever good at anything, it was masking their emotions. If they were surprised that James did not show any reaction to their last name other than a hint of recognition despite being a pureblood, they did not show it.

James just cracked a grin at Sirius' introduction, "Yeah, he's kinda cute and all little. You're both going to Hogwarts next year too?"

"Ah no, it's just me. Reg's going next year!"

"You're gonna be my yearmate, then! Which house d'you think you'll be in?"

Sirius shifted uncomfortably, but smiled nonetheless, "I don't know, really. My whole family's been in Slytherin, but I think I like Gryffindor more."

"Cool, I'm hoping for Gryffindor too! They say it's the best house, you know. They say Slytherin's bad."

Regulus reacted to that, "It isn't. Don't generalize."

James blinked at Regulus direction and swallowed, "Uh, okay, I guess."

"Yeah, I advice not badmouthing Slytherin so much in front of Reg. He explained it to me, you know, I think it's not that bad now, but it's not really for me," Sirius shrugged, "Maybe it's all the red."

"Oh, I see. Sorry, yeah?" James apologized sheepishly, and Regulus waved him off, saying it was nothing, "Why 'all the red'?"

Sirius looked at Regulus, "Because of daffodils. I think they're pretty in red."

Regulus only smiled. He didn't want to say that the daffodils were green now.

—

Sirius left later that year, and Regulus was now alone.

He sent a few letters. One for when he was sorted, and Regulus was happy when his brother had gotten into Gryffindor along with Potter, despite all the odds. Although he's not sure how to feel because he and his brother will be in rival houses, he ignored the clawing doubt and proceeded to write a letter back to congratulate Sirius.

As predicted, Orion wasn't rejoicing in the wake of his son's sorting. Neither was the whole House of Black. Regulus read from Sirius' letter that Bellatrix had gone ballistic and had thrown a hissy fit while their other cousins showed their blatant disapproval.

Regulus told Sirius in his letter not to mind them, and that he wishes holidays would come soon, so he could come home.

The silence in the studio seemed more suffocating whenever it wasn't cloaked around Sirius' voice. Ever since that day in the Alley, Regulus often painted portraits of a boy with a mop of striking dark hair. Regulus has an idea of why he kept using his memory of the Potter boy as a muse. He had a rougish charm, an aesthetic appeal that Regulus doesn't encounter much, and he made a good reference for when he was out of inspiration.

But somehow, the portraits always remained faceless. Regulus found that he couldn't possibly copy Potter's smile.

—

When Sirius came home for the holidays, Regulus honestly expected a fight to ensue between his father and his brother.

The day before Yule was a tense, tiring day, and Orion was silent for almost the whole twenty four hours, until he finally tapped Sirius lightly on the shoulder and said, "Congratulations."

Sirius cried for the first time held by his father.

Yule night came and it was probably the best one they ever had as a family, Regulus thinks, as they open up their presents. Their family members sent some gifts, and they were the standard, pureblood gifts meant more for politics than actual courtesy to give that the brothers sorted them away until all that was left was a handful of gifts from Sirius' friends and the brothers' gifts to each other.

The younger Black sibling was surprised, to say the least, that he got a present from one of Sirius' friends, namely Potter. It was nothing fancy. Just an edelweiss charmed to not wilt, which was probably store-bought since he knew Potter was way too young to properly charm the flower.

Regulus placed the edelweiss in his studio, thinking it was as beautiful as everything there.

—

The time finally came for Regulus to attend Hogwarts.

He and Orion shopped for his things early even when his letter wasn't even delivered, and the only thing Regulus was happy about was with his owl, Edel, because the edelweiss' petals were the first thing that came to his mind when he looked at the owl's feathers.

When Regulus' letter came, he clutched it tightly, thinking it was both a curse and a blessing to finally be with Sirius again just to separate once more when he enters Slytherin.

He has no doubts about his sorting, never had and never will.

—

Regulus ended up in the same compartment with his brother's friends.

He learned that Sirius had a half-blood friend named Remus Lupin, a somewhat scrawny boy that had scars littered across his skin. He looked like a character out of a fantasy book not because of any magnificent things; Regulus vowed to paint him sometime soon. Remus' slightly nervous but vague smile was probably way easier to replicate than James Potter's, anyway.

There was also Peter Pettigrew in his ragtag group of friends, and Regulus didn't like him as much as he liked Remus. He decided he'll give the older boy some more time to warm up to him.

Then came James Potter. It wasn't much of a shock, really, that he was already so close with Sirius. They were alike in many ways, after all.

"I'm sure you're gunning for Slytherin, right, Reg?"

"Yeah," he replied.

"Slytherin? With those slimy gits?" Peter added, and Regulus narrowed his eyes and was about to answer but Sirius already beat him to it.

"Peter, don't talk like that in front of my brother, yeah?"

Peter visibly swallowed, "Y.. Yeah. Okay, okay. Sorry."

Regulus didn't pay any attention to Peter and instead looked out the window.

"Sirius, I can't believe your brother is decent." Regulus heard Lupin, the half-blood, say. James snorted and Peter cracked a small smile while Regulus raised a brow.

Sirius looked positively affronted, "That's rude! I'm decent too!"

"You're not fooling anybody in this compartment with that, Sirius."

"Yeah, what a load of dung."

"I can't believe I'm friends with you lot."

Regulus smiled and allowed himself a small chuckle. Same house or not, Sirius was in good hands.

—

Regulus blocked out the noise of the Great Hall's claps and silently walked towards the Slytherin table. He sat beside a boy with black hair that fell on his shoulders and a long nose, whose name was Severus Snape. He learns that he and his brother's group were not the best of friends, but that was to be expected when you go to rival houses. Though their relationship wasn't as strained as Regulus thought it would be. They were just the typical Gryffindor and Slytherin to one another.

Later on he found out that Snape was a sort of outcast due to his blood status and friendship with a Gryffindor muggle girl called Lily Evans.

Snape and Regulus were friendly acquaintances, even though they were in different years. Regulus found that he only had one likeable dormmate that goes by the name of Genesis Zabini, who wasn't nearly as stuck-up as everyone else.

The first few weeks of Hogwarts were.. enlightening. Regulus learned that his brother's group was rising and riding the tide of the castle, becoming resident troublemakers and making McGonagall's head hurt. They're an entertaining lot, Regulus admits to himself, and even Genesis thinks they're annoying but tolerable.

His cousins in Slytherin try to speak to him, and he gives them brief nods and small smiles. Regulus doesn't give them much encouragement to continue to talk, especially their cousin Bella. Narcissa, or Cissy, was one of the few cousins Regulus and Sirius could tolerate, but even they know not to get involved with her when her engagement to Lucius Malfoy was already passed along as common news. They weren't looking forward for the wedding.

In his free time, Regulus tries to sketch James Potter's face.

He still can't do it.

—

Regulus celebrates the end of his first year in Hogwarts inside his studio.

Sirius is there, questioning him about the faceeless boy that often appeared in his paintings. Of why he had nothing else but tresses as dark as the night sky.

"He looks like someone I know," Sirius had said, "And it's wrong, since he doesn't even have a face."

Regulus hums, "Maybe you do know him."

"Really?" asked Sirius, "I think I'd realize who he was though, if I really do."

 _And maybe you will_ , Regulus thinks, _but only when he's not faceless anymore._

—

Regulus becomes a second year student so fast he couldn't fathom how.

Maybe it's because there was nothing to be excited about anymore in Hogwarts that he didn't notice the ordinary days going by were actually long, grueling months. He and Sirius still talk, to Regulus' relief. They're not the same as before, they will never be, but they will always be brothers with the same blood. He knows that. They both know that.

The Slytherin common room was a nice place, but for some reason Regulus always found himself seated by the Black Lake. He studies there, does homework there, paints there, and all the other things. Sometimes he even takes his naps by the lake.

This time he paints a woman with daffodils on her mouth and a vacant stare. There's no blood on the woman's face, though Regulus knows there should be. There should be splatters of the red liqiud scattered across her cheek and past her jaw all the way down to her neck and collarbone. There should be small pools of blood on the woman's lips. But there wasn't anything. The woman only looked so hollow — so void.

He thinks of Hanahaki while painting. He thinks of the tragedy of having to rely on only one person to btoh save you and kill you. He thinks of not wanting it. But that's all he does; think. Although it was common knowledge that Hanahaki was often hereditary, it was also rare to pass on, and that's what makes Regulus have an inkling of hope that he will not fall in love for someone so hard that he'd die for them. Because he had so much to do, so much to accomplish.

Regulus paints the daffodils red and green. They're smudged and messy, but nonetheless still beautiful.

Footsteps rattle Regulus' thinking and James Potter was suddenly seated beside him, looking at the piece Regulus had painted.

"It's beautiful," he praised Regulus, "Sirius was right. Daffodils are pretty in red. But I think they look brilliant in green."

Regulus stares at the boy he had failed for so long to paint, stares at his face without the ever-present smile, and realizes that maybe it wasn't his smile that he needed. Maybe it was only his serene face, the way he looked right now.

"Thanks, Potter."

"Call me James," he smiles (and Regulus _hates_ it).

"Okay, then," Regulus conceded, "Just drop your smile."

James blinked and blurted out an agreement with a laugh, his smile leaving his face as quickly as it came.

Regulus burned the image of the James Potter in front of him, the faceless boy in all of his paintings.

—

Regulus comes home for holidays and locked up in his studio.

Sirius is there with him again, singing softly, and Regulus swims in the sound as he felt his brush sing.

Regulus doesn't finish the portrait in one sitting, instead he leaves the paint to dry and listens to Sirius' voice as they linger in the studio.

He had missed the feel of home whenever he was around Sirius, and he missed the way they were before. Things had changed and ties have loosened; but until both hands were there to hold it tighter, it was going to be all right. They just had to believe.

Regulus sleeps that night with vivid dreams of a young boy with moon glasses and jet black hair, a smile missing from his face.

—

 ** _an；_** _regarding the different stuff here: as i said, this is an au. walburga's death caused a different outcome, and i don't think orion is that bad of a father, just a coward. the snape x marauder bullying relationship will not happen so badly here, since sirius is obviously a lot more mature than he was before. james is a bit grounded, im not so sure. so no, regulus is not a seething petty pureblood, but i believe he will always belong in slytherin and sirius in gryffindor, no matter how they've changed. slytherin is not automatically being a muggle hating bastard, it's about having ambition and being cunning and sly. stop generalizin, thanks. anyways, i hope u guys like it!_


	2. i see your eyes in the flowers

_**note for this chapter:**_

on harry potter and the philosopher's stone, it was said that james potter played seeker. however, jk rowling said that he was a chaser. _but_ i am making james potter a seeker in this, for story purposes. thank you! 

—

 **02.** _i see your eyes in the flowers_

—

Third year approached quickly.

Regulus didn't even realize that the holidays were over, much less the break. It only sinked in when Orion hauled Sirius and him out of his studio Saturday morning to go to Diagon Alley.

Regulus had been tweaking with the nearly finished portrait of Potter that time, with Sirius still delightfully unaware of who it was. Not like Regulus gave him the chance to see the painting clearly anyways. It was better to avoid his older brother's surely incessant questions.

"You spent all of your time home in that studio already, Regulus, it's time you get out of it, don't you think? Why is Sirius even there?"

Sirius sniffed indignantly, "Really, Father! Regulus needs me every time he paints, you know. I'm _essential_!"

"I'm astounded you even know what essential means, Sirius," Orion waved his right hand dismissively. "Go and put on your robes. We're shopping today for your school items."

Regulus nodded Orion and dragged a furious Sirius away, huffing and kicking, saying that he knows what essential means, of course, _thank you very much_ , and how _fathers should have faith in their intelligent sons_.

Diagon Alley was busy that Saturday morning. It was bustling with so much activity that Regulus flinched every time he heard someone's voice raise a pitch higher. Sirius seemed to be enjoying the lively crowd, though, with him jumping and running about— pointing at Quidditch supplies.

Orion bought Sirius the latest model for the broom, while he bought Regulus self-refilling paints, that he was very contented with, as well as Sirius was with his, excitedly buzzing about boasting to James that he got a new broom. Sirius after all was a house player: Gryffindor's chaser.

"You should get a broom too, Reg," Sirius whispered to him. "And then try out for Seeker. You've got Seeker build, actually."

"No thanks, it sounds tiring."

"But isn't painting tiring too?"

"That's different," said Regulus. "I enjoy painting. I like it. I don't like Quidditch."

"But we've played Quidditch before!"

"That was because you forced me to. Plus, we were only two people playing back then," Regulus sighed. "I'm sure playing in Hogwarts is different."

"You're quick, though. You catch the snitch faster than normal people," Sirius insisted with a pleading look on his face. "Come on. You'll do great!"

"No."

"Yes."

" _No_."

" _Yes_. Reg, please, for your favorite brother?"

Regulus pinched the bridge of his nose, "Sirius, you're my _only_ brother."

"That's not the point."

The younger Black heir sighed, "I'll think about it, okay?"

Sirius face lit up, "Knew you'd see it my way eventually, Reg!"

And Sirius then proceeded to pester Orion about getting Regulus a broom.

—

Regulus did, in fact, try out for the house team.

He also did, in fact, make the cut as Slytherin's new seeker, replacing the house's original seeker, who was a seventh year and has now graduated.

Regulus' first match was against Ravenclaw, where they won 195-110, with Regulus catching the Snitch. Sirius tried to drag him to the kitchens and celebrate Regulus' first official match and win, but he was already being tugged back to the Slytherin dungeons to have a victory party of some sort, an event which he did not actively participate in, and only smiled and thanked the people who went and congratulated him for, apparently, a good game.

His second match was against his brother, where they lost by a very close margin, 205-195. The first time they crossed each other at the pitch wasn't anticlimactic. It wasn't normal, no matter how much Regulus thought it would be. It was definitely the farthest Regulus has pushed himself for any physical activity. He remembered flying freely — his mind blank, only full of so much adrenaline that he felt drunk on the taste of the thrill. He felt his blood pumping as James Potter grinned at him after he caught the Snitch right in front of his eyes. Beaming and blazing, alive and feeling dazed.

He would not go as far as worshipping Quidditch like his brother and Potter does, but he recognizes that the sport is _indeed_ fun, although it wasn't Regulus' cup of tea. He would pick painting over playing Quidditch any day, of course — that was a fact that did not need any questioning — but he also enjoys the feeling of being in the air, in the sky; among the clouds.

Flying was stimulating. It was active and continuous. It moves and moves and _moves_ until you feel yourself being carried by the current, by the tide, flown backwards and forwards only being able to feel the shudders on your skin that exhilaratingly whispers that _you're awake_ and _you're breathing_ — that you _exist_.

Regulus needed the reassurance. The reminder that he's here. That he isn't fading yet.

—

"Regulus, did you even sleep?" said Genesis Zabini as he turned to look at Regulus' bed, where the said boy was currently sketching, already fully clothed, robes and all.

"I did," Regulus replied. "For a few minutes, at least."

Genesis scrunched up his nose in distaste, falling back to his bed to wrap himself around the covers, almost ready to fall asleep again.

Regulus and Genesis developed an uncanny friendship that started off the bat by first year. Being the only yearmate Regulus can fully tolerate, vice versa with Genesis, they started to hang out each other more and decided by themselves that they'll be allies indefinitely, by the unspoken rule that they found one another a good, satisfying company.

"You're going to be late, Genesis. So I suggest you don't laze around your bed. If you will make yourself late, then I'll head down the Great Hall by myself."

Genesis shot up. "What? What time is it?"

"Almost seven, I think."

With that information in mind, Genesis flopped back down his bed, closing his eyes shut. "Regulus, you do realize that our class isn't until eight, yeah?"

"I do," Regulus said as he snapped his notebook shut and placed it inside his bedside drawer. "Breakfast starts at seven. Bathe and get dressed, I'll be at the Great Hall if you ever finish before eight."

Regulus made it out the door, ignoring Genesis' wails.

—

The younger Black heir sat beside Severus Snape at breakfast.

Snape was more.. welcomed now than he was about two years ago. It was a shame that Regulus did not have Snape as a fellow third year, because if he was, then they would probably be better casual acquaintances. And though his friendship with the Evans girl was still a taboo topic among other Slytherins, they were forced to recognize Snape's own talents — though he wasn't fully given access to Slytherin's inner circles, he wasn't the center of scrutiny. A muggle-born second year was. Regulus' housemates found it _ridiculous_ that a mudblood had entered what they deemed the 'House of the Pure', which Regulus found, by the way — the ridiculous thing. He did not believe in blood supremacy as strongly as his other housemates, though he knows that there are other Slytherins who doesn't as well, but he realizes the difference blood status could make.

Purebloods grew in a community, in a world so capriciously different from the muggle-borns that you will not be able to help the differences that will eventually show. All blood-statuses had clashing upbringing that people felt the need to label themselves by the pure fact that each status had diverse traditions and virtues that they uphold. It is important to classify yourself as pureblood, halfblood, or muggleborn, but it isn't because of superiority or hierarchy — but the culture.

Regulus had accepted this fact long ago, without a clouded vision and a looming shadow of Walburga grinding him with the cut-and-dried pureblood talk. Regulus does not know if he should take it as a chance to grow that his mother died. He doesn't know if he should be happy about the fact that he didn't have a mother for the most of his entire life just because it caused him to differ from his peers.

Regulus had always known, though, that Sirius would grow up to be as he was now. Perhaps more rebellious if Walburga still resided strong and proud, so he did not worry about that. The question was — what would his future have been if Walburga was there to see him through?

Would he have been like what Mulciber was now, seething and sneering at those so-called 'mudbloods' that Regulus didn't even care about? Would he spit at the face of Gryffindors just because they were in a rival house? Would he and Sirius even be... like they were now?

Regulus clenched his fists absently inside his pockets, finding it a bizzare idea that he and Sirius would be _so so_ distant that they wouldn't talk and knock each other's shoulders on the hallways (but then, Regulus realizes, that it _could have happened_ that he and his brother could have separated because of different beliefs and views and biases — Sirius hating Regulus because he was a Slytherin, and then Regulus hating Sirius back because he turned on him. Regulus could _see_ it _perfectly._ He could see the aftermath of _what could have been_ had Walburga not decided to throw up flowers and bleed and die.)

Regulus stutters out a shaky breath and headed towards the Slytherin table.

Snape acknowledged Regulus with a nod, which Regulus returned. He sat down quietly and only picked at his small amount of food, as he wasn't particularly hungry but did not take skipping breakfast as an option since, surely, Sirius would pester him about 'not eating properly' again, as he did last year when Regulus started skipping meals in order to retreat at the Black Lake.

"Black, you're not touching your food again." Snape observed.

"I'm not that hungry," supplied Regulus.

"You always seem not to be. There are dark circles below your eyes, now."

Regulus hated how Snape could pick out details, and he reconsidered their casual acquaintance one more time.

"It's not something of concern," replied Regulus in a clipped tone. "You shouldn't dwell on it too much."

Snape placed his spoon down and looked at Regulus with an contemplative expression. "If you say so."

—

The day ended with Regulus sitting by the Black Lake.

There he took the notebook he sketched in, as he didn't feel the need to bring his painting materials and canvases that resided under his bed, ignored as Regulus does not have any particularly flashing inspiration that kept him up even at night — not until he finished James Potter's portrait back at his studio in Grimmauld Place.

And Potter was there too.

Just as it was a tradition for Regulus and Sirius to spend their days at home inside Regulus' studio, it was a tradition for Regulus and James — and unspoken one, one they never really bothered to formalize, as they just meet at the Black Lake a few hours after class or dinner.

James stayed there, for a while, peering over Regulus' shoulder, where he was sketching a dragonfly peacefully perched by the rock a few feet away from them.

"Why're you drawing that dragonfly?" asked James.

Regulus halted in sketching and looked over at him briefly, before returning to his unfinished work again. "I have nothing else to draw."

James hummed and grinned suddenly, looking at Regulus in the eye. "Draw me then, Reg!"

"I told you not to call me Reg," Regulus sighed. "It wouldn't make much sense if I drew you now, though, Potter." _since I've already painted you._

"And _I_ told _you_ to call me James. You agreed to that," James grumbled, "Why wouldn't it make much sense then?"

"Fine, James," Regulus conceded with a tired look, pointedly ignoring James' other question.

James, though, picked up on his avoidance and repeated his question. "Reg. Why wouldn't it make sense if you drew me?"

"Don't think too much on it," was the only thing Regulus was able to say as an answer. He quickly looked for other alternatives to get James off his back. He couldn't really say ' _hey, I already painted you, so it's pretty stupid if I drew you now._ ' Luckily, Regulus thought of a certain red-haired Gryffindor that he was sure could distract the boy beside him.

"It's getting pretty late, don't you think you should ask Evans if she wants to be escorted up Gryffindor tower?" Regulus mentioned casually.

James perked up instantly and bought it. "You're right, Reg, you're a genius! I'll be going now, don't stay up too late!"

Regulus watched a smiling James go with a small simper of his own. It stings a little, mainly how replaceable he was.

Dusk comes and then it is nightfall. Regulus was still sitting by the Black Lake.

The air around the lake was relatively calm. The water was sparse, glistening every once in a while. Although Regulus would describe it more of a deceptively calm atmosphere, as a lure. Regulus felt that he should turn away now — run back to the dungeons and tuck himself in bed, as he stared at the night sky's full moon.

He _had_ been around the Black Lake for much too long. How he wasn't caught yet was a mystery — but no one did check much on these parts, after all. Regulus could stay here all night and he was at least seventy percent sure that he wouldn't land in detention. Filch was busy with other troublemaking groups, after all. Namely one: the Marauders.

Sirius informed him the moment they got their supposed 'group name' at late second year. They started to pull pranks here and there, and went off at the end of the school year with fireworks and a myriad of Gryffindor red and gold. Regulus remembered dusting himself of all the confetti and glitters after that.

Just as Regulus was packing up to go back to the Slytherin dorm rooms, he heard a howl in the distance. Although faded, he could still hear them. Consecutive howls that made it perfectly clear for Regulus what it was: a werewolf. There was a rumor at Hogwarts that what they hear every night was a ghost — a ghost from the haunted Shrieking Shack, they said. Followed by a _don't go near it, you may see the ghost_. But now that Regulus has heard it for himself, here, outside, where he was fully vulnerable and alone, he knew what those howls were. He knew what resided inside the Shrieking Shack.

Regulus could visibly feel himself shake. He swallowed and took shallow, quick breaths that did nothing but raise the alarms in his head screaming _dangerdangerdanger_ — but Regulus couldn't walk even a step further, with his toes stuttering and knees almost buckling by the fear that's consuming him.

It was ridiculous; Dumbledore, letting a wereworlf inside Hogwarts. Letting it run free and possibly, wreak havoc so close to the school grounds. If discovered, this could potentially break the school's whole reputation along with Albus Dumbledore himself. It could even close down the whole school indefinitely.

Although Regulus could believe it. Dumbledore was a bleeding heart, even though he was a cunning man that was never in Regulus' good graces— and though he had a hard time processing the idea of a werewolf inside Hogwarts, as it was a hard pill to swallow — he eventually found himself walking towards the Slytherin dungeons, not shaking anymore but not thoroughly void of the fear that rocked him from within.

Regulus didn't get any sleep that night.

—

Regulus ended up late for his Transfiguration class the next morning.

He couldn't really process the scolding McGonagall was giving him, still shaken from last night.

He sat numbly throughout the next classes, mind whirling.

Genesis asked him what was wrong at Potions, since they were partners — luckily it did not affect his performance at the class, though, and they brewed a potion worthy of an O — but Genesis noticed how much silent Regulus had gone and how distracted he was at the classes they shared together.

Regulus told him it was nothing.

—

Dinner came.

Regulus noticed that his brother's ragtag group was missing a member. The said member was now walking towards their table, grinning sheepishly, as if he was apologizing for missing almost the whole day.

Regulus noticed again one of the things he did at first about Remus; his scars. The way they were littered around his face. The way they crinkle when his eyes droop down a little. The scars are fresh from what Regulus can see. And it seemed like he hasn't been sleeping well. Regulus wonders if this was the aftermath of, from what Sirius told him, Remus' monthly disappearances. He's always out every once in a month, for a week or for some days, and when he comes back, he will always look like he was beaten black and blue.

Regulus had always wondered where he goes.

Disappearing once a month.

Reappearing full of fresh scars— long slashes and claw marks so much like an _animal's_.

Regulus almost dropped his fork.

Like a _wolf's_.

Regulus looked at Remus' kind, soft expression one more time.

He refuses to believe it.

—

James does not show up at the Black Lake that day.

Regulus remembers following the young Potter's figure as he trailed after Lily Evans after dinner finished.

 _It's okay_ , he told himself. _He has other priorities._

Regulus looked up to see that the night sky tonight beared no moon. _I do, too._

—

The next month, Regulus keeps track of the moon charts.

Remus disappeared again the dinner before the full moon, and the day after that.

He reappears with another set of scars.

(He barely knew him; but his brother does. Sirius trusts him, _but does he know_? Regulus hopes he does. Though he probably doesn't. Remus probably didn't tell because he was _scaredscaredscared_ of getting scrutiny and shane and hate — and Regulus understands but he has to adjust — Remus is kind, he _has_ to be and Regulus _knows_ that.)

Regulus then looked at Remus' flushed, laughing face, genuine eyes flickering.

Regulus was forced to believe it.

—

Regulus visited Remus the next month in the hospital wing.

"I already know," he said indifferently. "You are no different."

Remus panicked. He shouted and writhed in phantom pain and closed his eyes.

"Do they know?" Regulus asked as Remus calmed down.

"No," replied Remus in a quiet voice. "They shouldn't."

Regulus blinked. "They deserve to. Sirius deserves to."

"I know."

"You really should tell them."

Remus nods. A beat of silence follows.

"So you don't hate me."

Regulus pursed his lips, "I was conflicted, at first. But no. I do not. There are worse things."

Remus' eyes flashed. "Worse things than a _beast_?"

"Don't feel too special," said Regulus firmly. "You aren't."

The hospital wing was shrouded in silence then, that moment. They let everything sink in, and Remus finally turned to Regulus with a smile.

"I suppose. Thank you, Regulus," Remus conceded. "I'll consider telling them."

Regulus told himself that it was good enough.


	3. i’ll pick a bunch for your room

**03.** _i'll pick a bunch for your room_

—

Sometimes, Regulus wonders how Remus got through all his full moons.

He wonders how the scarred boy felt, being constantly alone while his ribs cracked and his body deformed, turning into something — _someone?_ — that was him but at the same time not. He wonders if it gets better over time: the pain, the transformation, the loneliness. Always having a secret to keep.

He wonders if not telling was the same as lying. Perhaps it was just withholding information on Remus' part, given that his reasons were not quite unfounded. People do tend to be untoward towards werewolves, and if Regulus himself had something as big like that to hide, he would certainly not tell anybody else.

So maybe he understood where Remus was coming from. So maybe he gets it.

And looking at him now, laughing with his friends, with them unknowing of what he was, what he _is_ , maybe Regulus would have done the same as Remus, if put in his shoes — because he wouldn't give up something as precious as that to the world.

(Regulus certainly wasn't looking towards the boy with moon glasses as his eyes turned into soft crescents as he thought this, though. Really.)

—

In the middle of third year, Regulus finally accepted it to himself that Sirius' ragtag group of friends were not going to leave him alone.

It was James Potter, at first.

Always looking out to meddle with Regulus' calming hours at the Black Lake, rambling about random stupid things and Evans with her hair.

Then Remus came.

Regulus does kind of regret now that he chose to confront Remus briefly about his situation. Now the damn boy would not leave him alone. It was an unfortunate thing that Remus sometimes spends his time at the library, because Regulus visits there from time to time.

"Hey, Regulus, are you having trouble with your Charms essay?"

"We're in different years, Lupin."

Remus smiled as he sat down across from him. "Oh please, call me Remus. And I'm a year ahead of you, I've already gone through that."

"I can't find it in myself to care, thank you, I can do this myself." Regulus swiftly denied a second time.

"But it will be done faster with help."

"Go back to Sirius."

"That idiot can go a day without me."

Regulus doubts it. A lot. "My brother depends on you for _everything_ , Lupin. I'm hardly blind. I'll be surprised if he can go an hour without your presence."

"Well, he kind of does, doesn't he? And Lupin is a bit of a stretch, given that you already know my secret, I think you should really call me Remus."

Honestly, Regulus was close to tearing his hair out. "He does because you spoil him too much. And, fine. _Fine._ Remus. Whatever. You, James and my brother will be the end of me."

Remus perks up at that. "James? You call him by his first name? You talk?" he hummed. "I didn't know that."

"He insisted, just like you did. You Gryffindors and your stubbornness." Regulus gave a noncommittal shrug. "And you mean _he talks_. He keeps on talking and talking, and I just kind of sit there and watch him be an idiot."

Remus barks out a laugh. "Sounds like James, alright," he shifts in his seat to find a more comfortable position. "You mind if I stay? Have to study a bit with Defense theory."

Regulus gave the werewolf a look. "Do I even have a choice?"

—

Regulus liked his place in their dorm room.

It was between the window and the wall and only a few steps away from the door. At nights, when he can't sleep, he tucks his chin to his knees and looks out the window, tracing the stars even when he couldn't.

When he does that and Genesis is still awake, his dormmate looks at him briefly, and then shakes his head. He doesn't say anything, and Regulus is somehow grateful for that. And when he hears Genesis' soft snores echoing around the silent room, Regulus begins to shuffle his pillows at the space where his feet should be, then proceeding to lay down in bed upside down, just so that he could look at the clear window with the often starry night sky.

He doesn't know why he does it, really. Some part of him tells him that he feels curious, because he's named after a star. The other part of him says that he's just hopeless, out of inspiration, so he just abandons everything else to look at something beautiful.

Though Regulus himself knows that he does it because as he looks up at the night sky he feels the stars embrace him — like they were welcoming him home.

—

By the end of third year and Regulus comes home with Sirius, his brother greets him with a question, after fixing their things.

"You're not stealing my best friend from me, are you, Reggie?"

"Who? James?"

Sirius scrunched up his nose. "What? _James_? Why do you even call him James? And no, not him— my _other_ best friend, you know, Remus?"

"I thought that Potter was your best friend?"

"I can have two best friends, Reg, get over it. Or three, since there's Peter."

"Oh right, Pettigrew exists." Regulus muses to himself. "No, Sirius. I am not stealing your 'best friend' from you. In case you haven't noticed, I've been trying to avoid your group since first year."

"Why, if you say it like that Reg I'll assume you hold no love for the Marauders—"

"That's because I do hold no love for the Marauders, Sirius—"

Sirius ignored his comment. "—and since you've been trying to avoid us three years long, you should know that we are never going to leave you alone now." he finishes, flashing a triumphant sort of grin.

Regulus regrets his life then. "Sirius, please no."

"Don't sweat it, dear Reggie, now let's go to your studio!" Sirius twirled obnoxiously, putting one arm on Regulus' shoulder, practically dragging him towards his studio.

"I tolerated you calling me Reg, but Reggie is pushing it."

"I'm your brother, there's no limits."

"I wish I had another brother then."

And Sirius stops, giving Regulus the most betrayed look he could muster. "You did _not_ mean that! I am the _best_ brother in all of Britain, you know that!"

Regulus rolled his eyes at the display. "Do I?"

"I am _hurt_ , Regulus Arcturus Black. How dare you?"

"Alright, alright. You're the best brother in all of Britain or whatever, just cut that out."

"And you don't want another brother? Just me?"

Regulus sighed. "Yes. Just you."

Sirius breaks out into a grin. "Aw, Reggie, I knew you loved me!"

"Oh Salazar, shut up."

—

Regulus watched Sirius as he stared at the finished portrait of James Potter.

Although Sirius didn't know that fact, that the portrait was inspired by his friend, Regulus was eighty percent sure that he would find it out now. Sirius was intelligent, despite his outward actions, and it was easy to know if you observed him enough.

"This.. guy resembles James a lot, you know? Though he looks so serious here. Hey, it's actually weird not to see him smiling."

"That's because it _is_ James, Sirius."

And Sirius looked at him fully then. "This is _James_? I mean, not that I don't see it— it actually does look like him a lot, I told you that, right? But, Reg, you've been trying to finish this since.. since I was first year."

"For three years or so. He is kind of awfully hard to paint," Regulus shrugged in an attempt to make it all like a small deal. "I had nothing to draw while you were gone, so I busied myself. I thought he was going to be an easy piece, just a few weeks or so and I'll be done, but he wasn't. And you know me, I don't leave an unfinished piece. Especially here."

"I know that. It's just weird, I don't know, like, the portrait? James looks really.. uh, not James? Like it's really really good, since you painted it, but I kind of expected James grinning or something, if ever he's drawn or things like that."

Regulus pursed his lips. "I didn't know if I could paint him with a smile," he looked away from Sirius and made up an excuse. "I didn't want to make him look more obnoxious than he already is."

Sirius laughed at that. "I guess you're right," he hummed and looked at the painting again. "You know, Reg, if I didn't know that you liked your paintings very private, I would have wanted Jamie to see this. He'd like it, I think."

Regulus cocked an eyebrow up. "If he saw this, his ego would skyrocket. And who wants that?"

"Certainly not Evans," Sirius chuckled. "And yep. I bet James' head wouldn't even fit the doorframe if he saw this."

"His head already doesn't fit the doorframe."

"Fair enough."

—

It was odd.

When Regulus actually thought about it, it _was_ odd that he never saw their mother's portrait at Grimmauld Place. He knew, of course, that Walburga has a portrait of her own. Their father told him so, but he never did tell Regulus exactly where it was. For the record, Regulus haven't really asked for its location.

Imagine his surprise when he found the portrait at their house's library.

It was beneath deep green silk curtains, just hanging there hidden. For the first time in five years Regulus laid his eyes upon his mother.

Walburga stared back, lips in a firm line, jaw set, and chin high. She was always the picture perfect pureblood. Those hard eyes softened for about a second, the portrait realizing the person staring right back.

"Regulus?"

Regulus forced himself not to shiver at the voice — that smooth, sharp, cutting voice.

"You've grown quite a lot, I see."

Regulus only managed a nod.

Walburga looked him over again and hummed. "So _soft_. I knew Orion wasn't going to raise you adequately."

"Father's doing a good job so far, Mother," Regulus replied.

"At least you have some manners left," Walburga huffed. "But you clearly got that from me."

Regulus decided to pursue another matter. "Why are you hung in the library?"

Walburga smiled at him coldly. "Because your Father knew you and your brother never enters the library."

That was true. Although Regulus liked books and enjoyed reading them, he considered their library too eerie and ominous to visit, and so he stayed in his studio. Sirius wasn't a big fan of reading, so he never did consider going to the library.

"So he was keeping you away from us?"

"Yes, of course, because Orion is a fool," his mother sneered.

"I thought it was you who became a fool for him, Mother?" Regulus quipped.

And Walburga's eyes flashed like it always did when she was about to shout at Sirius and Regulus, her mouth turned down in an ugly frown, the same way it always did when one of them was going to get sent to the drawing room to be disciplined. "How _dare_ you? Your lack of respect astounds me! I raised you to be such a good child, too, Regulus, to be the perfect Black and you turned up to be as much of a disappointment as Sirius was. If I was still alive you would never have been like thi—"

" _If_ you were alive," Regulus cut her off. And he knew it was a low blow; that it was a far too sensitive topic to touch, but he said it anyway, because Sirius was _wonderful_. He wasn't whatever Walburga said, and he will always, always be a figure in his life. "But you are not."

With insults still being hollered at his face, Regulus closed the curtains and exited the library.

—

When fourth year rolled in, Regulus still hasn't completely buried the memories of his encounter with his mother.

Bits of it was still replaying in his mind, how he became a disappointment, how he was too soft to be a Black, to belong— to be her _son_.

Regulus will always care about whatever Walburga had to say. He will always be affected with whatever comes out her lips, no matter how much he equally despised the woman. Walburga was still his mother, undeserving of the little respect he gives her or not.

Regulus never really got around to telling Sirius about their mother's portrait at the library, since he knew that Sirius wouldn't be particularly fond of the shared information, and he wasn't very comfortable discussing it.

Beside Regulus, Genesis grunted and kept tapping the table with the end of his quill. "I hate Divination!"

"Why did you take it as an elective then?"

"I thought it was easy to write gibberish in this subject, get off my back."

Regulus shrugged. "Serves you right."

"Can it. What electives did you take anyway?" Genesis shot back as he threw a pillow at Regulus' direction.

"Astronomy and Ancient Runes."

Genesis didn't look that surprised. "Of course you'd take Astronomy. With the way you look out the window almost _every_ night I actually won't be surprised if you snuck out the common room to stargaze, or something."

"Shut up, Gen."

His dormmate only laughed at him. "You _totally_ sneak out at nights don't you?"

"I do not." Regulus huffed, throwing Genesis' previously thrown pillow back at him.

"But you would?" insisted Genesis, catching the pillow and placing it beside him.

"I would not. Go back to your Divination assignment."

"No, I'll just say something like ' _My Inner Eye isn't opened yet_ ' and all that. I bet I would even get an E. For _Eye_."

Regulus rose an eyebrow. "You'd be lucky to get a P."

"Oh sod off, Regulus."

—

At the end of the day, when Regulus arrived at the Black Lake, James was already there.

Regulus didn't make himself known and just observed the Gryffindor boy in the distance. As always, James' presence felt heavy, and it left Regulus feeling small. He was very... out there, for the lack of a better term. Vivid but serene, like he was right now.

It was a bit unnerving.

"What are you doing here?"

James noticed him then, and flicked his head to his direction. "Admiring nature."

"I doubt that," replied Regulus.

"Oh c'mon, can't I admire nature without judgement, please?"

Regulus scoffed. "Don't be a drama queen."

James put his hands up in the air, as if to indicate surrender. "That's not my job. That's Sirius' job."

"Fair point," Regulus accepted. "But you still haven't answered my question."

"I told you, admiring nature! What do you want from me, Reg?"

"The truth, for one, James."

James looked genuinely surprised at that one. "You called me James! Without me telling you to! This is _gold_ , Reg. You just made my day."

"You've been pestering me for three years to call you that, don't overreact. And I'm pretty sure Evans alone could already make your day."

The Potter boy actually seemed a bit down about the fact that the Gryffindor girl was mentioned. "Ugh, don't bring up Lily."

"And why? I thought you'd be ecstatic that I did."

"She's dating that Ravenclaw sixth year. He is totally too _old_ for my Lilyflower! He's a sixth year!"

"James, in case you forgot, even my brother involves himself with sixth years. Even _seventh_ years. And he's only one year ahead."

James ignored the Sirius part. "Exactly! One year ahead! That's, like, so old!"

"Then that means you're old, too." Regulus countered.

"What? No I'm not!"

"You're a year ahead of me. You are _so old_." Regulus replied, hooking his fingers in the air as if to imitate James' statement.

"That is different and you know it," James hissed. "Why are you betraying me, Reg? We could've been dissing that guy for hours now!"

"Gossiping? Really, James? What are we, elementary girls?"

"We could have been!" James groaned and rolled over the grass, putting his chin between his palms and pouting. Regulus thought that he looked like an absolute idiot. "It's just, I've been after her for years, you know? The start of Hogwarts! First year! And, and.. I don't know. She just doesn't see me. Like, as me. I don't even prank Snivell — ugh, Snape — fine," James corrected after Regulus gave him a look. "I just don't get it."

"Don't come to me for advice. You're not being very subtle about it," James sent Regulus a pleading look. "I won't be able to say anything helpful. I have no experience whatsoever about your fancies, so drop it."

"Fine," James conceded. "And that's totally right. Don't ever like, get a crush or something. Or fall in love. You'll end up like me. A mush. An absolutely dashing mush, but whatever."

"I don't plan to, but thanks anyway."

And James suddenly sat upright with a realization. "Holy shit!"

Regulus muttered a soft 'language' under his breath.

"You really _cannot_ date! Your suitors would have to go through me _and_ Sirius. Merlin, how have we overlooked this? What if someone's already wooing you? Sirius would _die_."

"Don't be gross, James. No one is 'wooing' me."

"Pure, innocent, Reggie—"

"Don't call me Reggie!"

"—what if you're already corrupted? What am I gonna do?"

"Nothing, that's what. You're being a drama queen again, James. You can certainly contest my brother for the crown." Regulus said, putting a stop to James' antics.

"Oh you're right, I _can_ ," James mumbled. "I'll have to challenge Sirius now, then? What d'you think, Reg? Am I obnoxious enough?"

Regulus groaned.

—

It was a horrible sight.

His brother, James, and Pettigrew in a library.

A _library_.

"What are you all doing here, exactly?" Regulus asked, after the shock gradually died down. Remus was there of course, but he was only burying his head between the palms of his hands, looking completely, absolutely _done_.

Sirius perked up at his voice and seemed to look around to see if there were anyone in their current vicinity, and when he was satisfied, he practically dragged Regulus all the way to their table and spoke to him in a hushed voice. "We're learning to be Animagus, Animagi— whatever. Y'know, animal thingies—"

"Yes, I do know, no need to elaborate, Sirius. But why? You're aware this is as close to impossible for teenagers to accomplish?"

"I told them that, but they didn't listen. Hi, by the way, Regulus." Remus explained as he waved towards Regulus' direction.

Regulus waved back, albeit a little short lived.

Sirius, however, along with James and Pettigrew, looked at Remus with hesitant expressions as if they were waiting for him to say something, and that was where Regulus understood the whole fiasco.

"Oh so it's for Remus? For his.. monthly.. escapades?"

Remus groaned. "Why do you have to make it sound like _that_?"

"Wait. You _knew_?" Sirius almost shouted. "And _I_ didn't?"

James looked as equally shocked by this information as well as Pettigrew.

"Okay, to be fair, I only knew about it last year. And I figured it out for myself, unlike you, since Remus probably owned up and admitted things."

Sirius was still staring at him.

"So you magically figured out Remus here had a, you know, furry little problem?" Sirius drily said.

"I did not 'magically' figure it out. There were clues. Pieces. I connected them, talked to him, that's it. He did not tell me before he told _you_."

"It's true, don't corner him," Remus added. "But he was the one to convince me to tell you all sooner, though."

Regulus shot him a look that said 'not helping' and Remus just shrugged noncommittally.

"Can we talk about this later and discuss why you're planning to become an Animagus? It's dangerous without supervision."

Sirius was still a bit miffed about the situation, so James answered instead. "We figured out that, uh, Remus can't turn animals in his form. So, we decided to be Animagi to, like, accompany him during full moons, or something. So that he doesn't always get so lonely."

"Noble of you," Regulus commented, choosing not to ask anymore. "Alright, I'll go. I'm overstepping things here and such, so I'll go back to my common room."

"Um, you're not. Not. Er, overstepping or anything, Reg, I'm sorry, you know me. I thought I was left out and.."

Regulus sighed at his brother and flicked him in the head. "Shut up. I know. It's okay."

"Aw, Reggie, you're adorable!"

Regulus was just about to snap at James for calling him Reggie again, but Sirius beat him to it.

" _What_? What is this? Why is James calling you Reggie? I'm the only one who can call my little brother that!"

"He let me!"

"I did _not_." Regulus denied.

"Is that true? Tell me, did you really betray _me_ like this, Reg? How could y—"

"Salazar, shut your mouth. I'm going. I can't stand this. Good night, whatever— get off me, Sirius, don't cling to my legs— I did not let him call me that. You are both idiots."

"But that nickname was reserved for me! Your best older brother!"

Regulus breathed out heavily. "For fuck's sake, Sirius, how many times am I going to tell you that you are my _only_ brother?"

James and Sirius gasped.

"You cursed!"

"I told you, Sirius! Someone corrupted Reg!"

"Don't call him Reg, James! You _traitor_!"

Eventually, Regulus managed to slip away.


	4. green and blue to match your pictures

**04.** _green and blue to match your pictures_

—

In this place, time relentlessly carried on.

No slow burns, no gentle ticking and foreboding warnings — just a sudden breeze announcing that another year has gone by (or, another twelve whole months of doing nothing). Previously, Regulus thought he would feel every second and every minute of the year. He thought things would slow down, move in a motion he cannot flow with, and he'll be forced to watch from the sidelines, a brush in his tingling hands.

Only one thing was checked off from the list. Only his tingling hands. They were itching to paint something. One of worth, one of beauty, one of his. Another year was spent wrongly. Regulus, swaying alone for weeks, sketching circles and circles of circles. In his dorm, he couldn't touch the brush. He kept pulling out a canvas week per week until it turned day per day, but the canvas stayed empty. It would be the same canvas everytime; Regulus kept it under his bed, in hopes of getting struck with something inspirational, something sensational enough to make him pick up the brush and dip it with green.

Green, the colour that surrounded him, along with silver. Green, the unchanging color of the daffodils he painted when he was young. Green, the colour of his tie. Green, the colour of the curtains that hung beside his bed. Green, the colour that Sirius didn't have— nor does James. They were all.. red. Red, the original colour of the daffodils. Red, the colour of his brother's tie. Red, the colour of Evans's hair: one James could weave poems about. Red, the colour that haunted him every time he tried to think; red— an overbearing swirl of colour, bright and conquering, one thing Regulus didn't have. He was all cuts and corners, dim streetlights and silver rings. They shine, of course, but not as bright; not as vivid as the lights on the Great Hall that day.

Flags of green flapped as they hung on the ceiling of the Great Hall, indicating Slytherin's victory of the House Cup that year.

The year is done, and all Regulus thought about were colours and his emptiness of it.

—

A light flickered in Regulus's eyes, and then he's in the Great Hall again, a variety of blinding colours greeting him — green, red, blue, yellow — he pieces it together, and realizes that it's his fifth year.

—

Regulus cursed Genesis and his tendency of staying in bed on weekends. Genesis insisted he was harrased at Divination time yesterday, so he needed extra sleeping hours to open his inner eye. Regulus wanted to hex both of his eyes so he can never open one again.

And so, Regulus, a person of personal space, stalked off to the Black Lake with a pencil and sketchbook in hand, though he knew he'd end up marring pages of the sketchbook with nonsensical circles, anyway.

By the time he arrived near the Black Lake, he found James and Evans seated on the grass; they weren't really talking, just staring off at a distance with little care of their surroundings. The sun in the middle of the day casted them a shadow that made their figures seem larger, longer, untouchable. Evans's hair lightly moved with the wind, and the colour of red burned Regulus's gaze. He didn't look away, though, he remained there, waiting for something to happen. Waiting for a breakthrough. Maybe the sun would shine brighter, giving them a golden frame, making their shadows dance. Maybe they would stand. Maybe they would notice him, a passerby. Maybe James would turn his head, and maybe he'd feel sorry for currently occupying Regulus's only recreational place. Maybe, if he stayed longer, he'd understand how he felt. But the longer he looked, the more confused he slowly became.

Eventually, he realized, that he didn't talk much with Sirius's ragtag group anymore after fifth year started for him, and sixth for them. They'd pass by each other on the halls, exchange smiles, some pleasantries, some knocking of the shoulders, but never talked. It was a nice change of environment, especially when he wanted some peace and quiet — he got a healthy dose of Sirius every break anyways when he gushed about Remus, be it of his intelligence, his hair, his looks, his scars, his gentleness and snark — so why bother? Late last year and the opening of this year, when Regulus goes to the Black Lake, he was alone more often than not. The silence wasn't deafening, but it was heard loud and clear.

After that, Regulus made a mental note not to visit the Black Lake again.

—

Genesis was still covered up in his sheets when Regulus got back, though that wasn't very surprising — his trip was quite short, after all.

Regulus ignored Genesis for the mean time, and pulled out the ever-empty canvas under his bed. Flickers of red and black locks enveloped by the glimmering sun flashed through the back of his mind, taunting, and he quickly picked up a brush, swirled colours of crimson and shades of black and white. He smeared the canvas for the first time in months.

Regulus started to outline the pillars first. He didn't dare paint this cathedral piece of pure holy white — he had to use red. He had to use what he doesn't have, so that he can compensate for it. Perhaps he'd feel better the next day, after inverting the chroma of churches. He didn't quite understand why a cathedral came out when he was painting, he didn't think he'd actually come up with anything at all, really — but he didn't know where it came from. A thought inside of him rang out, that perhaps it was because it looked like the sun casted James and Evans a halo worthy of sanctity that day and the only thing that stuck to him in front of all that devoutness was red and red alone.

The piece was left unfinished after a few numbing hours. Regulus's hands still tingled but not quite the same as before; it has mellowed down, only softly humming. Regulus sat on the bed beside the canvas, waiting for it to dry so he could cover it and leave.

Leave. Find something else to do. Something not as stifling.

—

The world still turned after Regulus finally painted, even though it was still a half-finished piece. It still spins, as slow and unnoticeable as ever, a picture of stealth. However, after finally regaining the feeling of his nerves and fingers, how time passed by became visible for Regulus. The clock didn't just carry on, unlike the previous year. He's aware. Cognizant. Not fully awake to understand, but just conscious enough to know that time is passing by, and he's doing something while it does.

Regulus did not feel any contentment. He could feel something crawling at the back of his throat, as always, but it was not contentment. Just acceptance.

"You're actually touching your food, Black," Snape commented, after swallowing a mouthful.

It was breakfast, at the Great Hall. His mind had wandered; and he could only stare voidly at the older boy.

"Isn't it a good thing?" came his reply, after a few blinks and tapping in his mind.

"I suppose.." Snape trails off. "It makes me a little wary."

Regulus was genuinely surprised this time. "Wary of what, exactly?"

"You're related to that Gryffindor, after all. I can't always expect you to stray from his influence. Out of the norm for you means there must be a a turn of events." The sixth year supplied without missing a beat, as if he had already thought about this before and could only voice them now.

"You got four whole years of peace from me, Snape," Regulus pointed out. "Just because I ate a spoonful this morning doesn't mean I'll suddenly become Sirius the next minute."

Snape hummed. "You never know with you Blacks."

Regulus firmly ignored Snape's comment and finished his breakfast.

—

Sirius seeked Regulus out after classes.

Though they do not often talk at Hogwarts, they were still close — perhaps not like the childish closeness they had back then since they matured, but they stayed intact nonetheless. Sirius dragged him to the kitchens and started panicking right off the bat.

He paced first, then thumped his head on the wooden table like an elf after being scolded (it did alarm the house elves around the kitchens that time by the way, and some house elves even imitated Sirius), next he sulked on a corner while munching on a piece of pastry, then afterwards held Regulus's hand like he was pleading for something.

Regulus sighed. "Sirius, no matter how much you think it, I cannot read your mind. Just tell me."

Sirius only made obscene hand gestures.

"I don't know this ridiculous sign language either."

Sirius groaned. "It's Remus, Reggie. He's.. he's.. frustrating! I don't know, he's like.." he proceeded to make another set of hand gestures and kept flailing.

"Okay, stop with the hands, Sirius. It's distracting. _No_ — I meant put your hands down. Not like _that_ , just keep it beside you and don't tap— _ugh_ stop waving it around— you know _what_ , nevermind," Regulus felt the sudden urge to thump his head on a wooden table now. "What's this about Remus? Are you going to tell me how smart he is this time or how good he looks when he falls asleep?"

"I don't talk about that!"

Regulus only raised a brow.

"..Fine, maybe I do, but it's because it's true! But it's not about that this time, okay?"

"Alright. So what is it about? Have you figured out your long-term.. affection or something terribly similar?"

Sirius lightly punched Regulus' shoulder. "What? Where are those coming from! There's nothing and I totally don't get distracted by how his hair falls during classes, or how cute he looks when he concentrates, no— that'll be weird, right? _Right_?"

Regulus didn't know if Sirius was convincing him or himself. He has a strong feeling that it's the latter. "Calm down. You notice things about Remus and you like him, that much is evident. It's not weird," he pauses. "You just have to accept it."

" _Like_?" Sirius squeaked out. "As in _that_ type of like?"

"You're not twelve. Yes. It's that type of like. Like-like. Whatever you label it. You know it too, I can tell. You wouldn't have freaked out like this if you didn't at least have an inkling of it."

"Yeah, I do have clue, but.." Sirius trailed off and let out a heavy breath. "Is that okay? Is _this_ okay?"

Regulus's mind took him back to the time where he painted a faceless boy with midnight black tousled hair, to the time where he looked at a boy with warm eyes and round glasses and felt something he couldn't quite place what was, to the time when his heart ached just right when he arrives at the Black Lake every afternoon.

To the time when he felt exactly what Sirius was feeling right now. (He still feels it, actually.)

"Yes, Sirius. It's okay."

Sirius smiled at him ambiguously with a certain resignation dancing in his eyes. "I never thought.. I.."

"You never thought that you'll ever look at someone that way? That you could feel something genuine? Something not imbued to you?"

"You sound awfully familiar with this, Reg. Makes me wonder sometimes."

Regulus waved him off. "There's nothing. I just know you too well."

Sirius sighed. "I never know what's going on with you. C'mon. Tell me. Maybe there's not a someone, but something's definitely there. I know you too."

Regulus leaned on one hand and closed his eyes briefly before speaking, "I was having trouble painting. I couldn't hold a brush for months. Things just seemed to fly by. It's... I feel empty."

"You're speaking in past tense. You can paint again, then?" Regulus mentally scolded himself for not remembering Sirius's keen eyes and ears to details.

"Yeah, I can."

"How did you find inspiration? It was probably something special to you. You can't get out of a block that easy, Reg." insisted Sirius.

"There was just this scenery. Nevermind that. It's not really important. It's superficial," Regulus tapped on the surface of the wooden table slightly. "I don't know how long this'll last, though. I still haven't finished the piece."

Sirius caught on to Regulus's quick diversion, but let it go for the mean time. "Can I see it sometime?"

"On holidays, when we go back home. It'll probably be finished by then."

Sirius snorted. "You sure that you wouldn't be distracted half way?"

"Oh shut up."

The older Black sibling only patted Regulus at the back to show some consolation. "I missed you, Reg."

"Missed you too, Siri."

—

Breakfast the day before the holidays was dull.

Regulus noted that the Marauders were absent from Gryffindor's table, their usual space empty, even though the plates were full. He didn't think much of it and went back to picking at his food. So far, he was making progress with the cathedral painting. He was able to add some depth to the structure, but it didn't look alive. He couldn't feel like it was his.

Owls came in while Regulus was deep in thought. Some letters were delivered and the Daily Prophet was handed out uniformly. Murmurs erupted from Regulus's hearing and he turned to look at the other tables. The Prophet was in their hands, not flipped to one page but stayed firmly at the headlines.

Regulus peered over Genesis's shoulder.

 _Oh._ _So that's why._

Fleamont and Euphemia Potter were dead.

—

After that, no one questioned the Marauders' absences.

Rumors circled around that day on the train back home. That the Potters were killed by Voldemort, that he was finally on the move. That he was targeting those who refuse him.

They weren't wrong. Regulus has been a Slytherin for almost five years; he knew what went around the vines. People around him were recruiting, forming groups. They tried to take him, once — he didn't refuse, but he didn't accept either. He was only thirteen that time, when they talked to him. He told them he would only watch. Avery didn't support that. He told Regulus to pick a side, because he was a Black — surely he was raised better than that, he even added. Regulus let them think what they wanted to think. He only kept saying he'd be neutral, because that's what a true Black would do. Stay on the safe side. No side was guaranteed a victory; only the one standing in between was. Avery still wasn't particularly convinced, but left him alone. This was the main reason why he tended to stay in his dorms or at the Black Lake (although that option was gone. Regulus was heavily considering the kitchens as a substitute).

He hasn't told Sirius about any of this.

He woke Genesis up when the train finally stopped.

—

Orion stood tall on the platform, a cane in his right hand, while the other was stuffed in his left pocket.

Regulus couldn't remember the times when Orion's presence was demeaning. That time surely existed, no doubt; but he couldn't find the similarities of the Orion before to the Orion he was currently looking at. It showed how someone's mere existence changed people. It showed how heavy someone could be.

While Regulus was walking towards his father, two familiar figures entered his vision.

"Reg! You're just in time. James will stay with us for the holidays," Sirius looked uncomfortable after that. "Since.. that.."

Regulus looked at James briefly before turning back to Sirius. "Yes, I'm aware. Father said it's fine?"

Sirius shrugged. "I was about to ask."

"It's fine. He can stay in the guest room." Orion's voice cut through them both, and Sirius couldn't hide how his expression lighted up at this. James also looked like he breathed a sigh of relief, although his features still somewhat sagged.

"Thank you...?" James trailed off, clearly uncertain of what to call Orion.

"Orion."

James looked uneasy at calling Orion so casually, but his Father didn't seem to mind. Regulus thought it was odd. And by Sirius's expression, he thinks it's definitely strange, too.

"Thank you, uh, Orion, sir."

Orion only nodded.

Sirius basically skipped on their way to Grimmauld Place.

Regulus thought that it'd be a long week.

—

When they finally settled down back home, Sirius was positively humming and kept showing James around.

Regulus retreated to his studio, of course. Laced with peace and quiet—

"And here— here's Reg's studio!" came Sirius's voice from outside. Regulus sighed and waited.

"You sure we can enter, Pads?"

"If Reg's here, we can. And he's _definitely_ here. Trust me."

The door to his studio opened and revealed his brother and James.

They both stared at the cathedral painting, one Regulus didn't bother to cover once he heard their voices, since they would surely want to take a look after they enter. Why deny the inevitable?

"So this is what you were working on!" Sirius exclaimed, inching closer to the canvas. James followed after him.

"Don't get too close. I just finished, it hasn't dried yet."

Sirius nodded, and cocked his head sideways, inspecting the finished piece. It was a cathedral made with various shades of red — the floor was the lightest colour, and the ceiling the darkest. The pillars were a swirl of crimson shades; they looked like they were changing colours as you looked at them longer. The walls were painted a gradient of red, connecting the hues of the floor and the ceiling, making them seem like one entity. Two windows were parched in between the spaces of these walls. Through the first window's glass was the morning sun, blinding and bright, illuminating a side of the cathedral. Through the second window's glass was the midnight moon, far duller in contrast, and it gleamed its borrowed light on the ground, creating an illusion of stardust.

"You rarely do something that isn't alive," To Regulus's surprise, it wasn't Sirius that commented this, even though he saw more of Regulus's pieces. It was James who said it, his hands tucked on the pockets of his trousers, a cryptic sort of smile dancing on his face.

"That's.. true," Regulus muttered, enough for the three of them to hear. "I guess something just struck me, then."

"Right. You never told me what inspired you to do this when I asked you, you know," Sirius cut in.

"I told you, it's merely superficial. Just a passing thing."

"When you first picked up a brush when we were young and took art classes together, you told me it's just a 'passing thing'. And here you are."

"I guess I tend to get attached with things that pass by." Regulus thought back to red hair, moon glasses and the Black Lake. "It's a gamble. You'll never know if those things will stay."

"..Reg, you're awfully poetic today." Sirius commented, after a brief silence. James was looking at him oddly, and he diverted the attention to something else.

"What are you doing here, anyway?" Regulus asked as he left the stool and put away his recent painting to dry.

"Ah, just thought that maybe James would want to see your studio. You guys talk sometimes, right?"

Regulus hid his wince.

James answered for him. "Yeah. We don't talk much now, though. Reggie stopped coming to our usual place. Really, I felt betrayed!"

"We don't have a 'place', James." but we used to.

"What's this place?" Sirius followed up while helping Regulus put his materials away.

"Just the Black Lake. Found him there third year, or something, he was painting too. He looked so little."

"Of course I looked little. I was twelve."

"You're still little now, though."

"Sod off," Regulus almost flung the brush he was putting away at James's direction. "I grew up."

"Ah! Speaking of growing up, little Prongsie's growing up too. Evans is finally talking to him now."

Regulus pretended not to know. He pretended that he didn't see the two of them seated together at the Black Lake. He pretended the cathedral wasn't for him. "Really? I didn't notice. You'd wonder what got into her head. She's usually rational."

"My thoughts exactly."

"Hey! You two talk to me!"

"Well, we have no choice," Sirius started.

"But she did." Regulus finsihed.

"You're both jerks," James huffed. "Lily's really nice. She's beautiful— of course, but she's witty, funny, and really kind. She's passionate about things she likes, like advocating, reading, finding out something new. You know that? It's when her eyes light up and everything around her does, too. It's.. it's really beautiful."

Regulus doesn't know that. He doesn't really care, too. But the way James's face looked like when he talked about Lily? The way his lips turn up unconsciously when he lists off things he found beautiful about her? The way his voice sounded like when he told them this? He wanted more of that. He cared about that. That's what he wants to see.

 _It's not weird._ Regulus recites.

"Yeah, we know, Prongs, you like her, and all that."

And James laughed, lightly knocking Sirius's shoulders.

 _You just have to accept it._

The moment Regulus does, he felt an ominous itch crawling at the back of his throat.

He ignored it and went on.

—

（ **note** ）

— _i haven't updated for a long, long while! here's something. the pacing will be really fast and subtly incorporated, by the way. this is a pretty short story, after all. because i wanted some suffering and jegulus content. this update took a lot out of me? i'm not used to writing a chapter again. i usually just do some drabbles and go. i'm sorry if the text seemed straightforward and flowed badly. my brain cells aren't cooperating_.


	5. you looked so good in green

**05.** _you looked so good in green_

—

The first few days of James staying over at Grimmauld Place was fairly quiet.

He would stick to Sirius' side, mostly, and since Sirius was mostly at Regulus' side, both Gryffindors were practically glued to Regulus' studio. The first time they actually hung around the studio while Regulus was starting a smaller piece, Sirius immediately broke into a tune and sang, like it was automatic — like a _system_. Neither sibling thought that it was odd, because it was the tradition, the practice. James, however, had no clue of Sirius' apparent hobby, or talent.

(It went a little like this:

"Sirius, that song's obscene." Regulus commented, sighing, "Please don't sing about naked people."

Sirius shrugged. "Blame the muggles, Reg. It's their lyrics. Plus, the tune's pretty catchy."

Regulus just rolled his eyes. Both brothers seemed to forget the third person in the room, already shifting into a comfortable setting.

James, not one to be ignored, cleared his throat. "Uh, Pads?"

Sirius looked at him over his shoulder and lifted a brow, still singing. And, as if a switch was flipped, Sirius fumbled and looked away, as if embarrassed, immediately stopping the song.

"You _sing_?" asked James. "Not _cool_. You actually have talent and what do _I_ have? Only my dashing good looks and mad Quidditch skills! And you have those too!"

To this, Sirius let out a small breath of relief and barked a startled laugh, and Regulus? Regulus just rolled his eyes _again_.)

When not at the studio, the two were often at James' room, surprisingly quiet. Regulus passed by once — or twice — their newest guest's room, and sometimes, he swears he can hear the faint tune of Sirius' voice. Slow, soft, melodious. He knows how that sounds, he _knows_ when exactly Sirius uses that voice. He's heard that from Sirius before one time, when he was particularly down. He only uses it on fragile, sensitive situations, to calm someone down, or maybe make them remember they still have someone.

And that's how Regulus remembered. That's how he remembered that James — no matter how _much_ he smiles, cracks a grin or a bad joke — has lost his parents. The people he's had for sixteen years, who took care of him, supported him, _loved_ him. There's plently of people who loved James, of course, much more who cared for him, but not one of those people can quite replace a parent's warmth. Not Sirius, not Remus, not Pettigrew, not Evans, _not_ him.

At times like these, Regulus just chooses to forget, even if he keeps remembering. To forget that they're in the middle of a war. That, in a few years, perhaps even months from now, they'll be in the center of this madness. Of the losses, the blood, the people who just want to go back _home_ — but _can't_. (It's either they can't go home yet, or there's no home anymore to come back to.)

They're all getting older, growing up. They're all going to have responsibilities. Things to take care of. Work. Jobs. For some, a family. Children. Settling down. (Regulus tries hard not to see James and Evans in a cozy home, looking like they're made for each other and nothing else. With a child, maybe even two of them, running around — splitting images of each other it just hurts. Regulus tries _hard_ , you see, not to think about it, blocking it on the forefront of his mind. But that's just it. He tries. Just _tries_. Not ever succeeding.)

Regulus lets out a bitter laugh and stands up. He sways a bit, after knocking one of his foot on the steel of the stool he was sitting on. He puts away the half-painted canvas. Lines it up with the other canvases he never quite finished. Beside these canvases was an edelweiss, still fresh, alone on a marble vase. The vase was gathering dust, although not thick enough to obscure the vase's pattern. He casts a silent _Scourgify_. He smiles, and remembers that the flower was a gift from James about five, maybe four, years ago. He has.. forgotten, that it even existed, after his first year. Perhaps it was because it was tucked into a corner of his studio, never much on his sights.

It's odd, to see it fresh. Still in full colour. He doesn't know if he's glad it was charmed not to wilt. Edelweiss; to dare. The flower of noble courage. It was very.. Gryffindor. Regulus wonders if James knew what it meant, or if he just picked it out randomly from a store, packaged it, sent it. He doubts he did. He wasn't the type to know about flowers, anyways. Maybe he thought it looked pretty. Just that. A bit shallow.

Regulus doesn't know what to do with it, so he leaves it be.

He continues to tidy up his studio.

There's a scratching again, on the back of his throat.

He leaves that be, too.

—

The next day, Regulus found himself painting the edelweiss.

The concept itself wasn't any different nor surprising; he had a collection of his paintings of various kinds of flowers, after all. The shoe fits. It wasn't out of place, it doesn't stand out. Not like the cathedral. This one — _this_ one was familiar.

And Regulus was having a hard time finding anything familiar these days.

This was safe. His comfort zone.

Everything has been largely different the past few months. The place, the people. Their feelings, their faces. Regulus, himself, has been different. Odd. Not comfortable in his own skin. Sometimes he looks down at his hands and he feels like someone stitched them to his body; it didn't feel like it was his own. Not in the way they moved, not in the way they were created. It still looked the same — bony, long, sickly pale. The veins showed on the surface and the palm was full of crossed lines. But it didn't _feel_ the same. His hands were too heavy. Hard to move and hard to use. His fingers were unstable, like they'll fall off if he did something wrong. He's careful with them, because he thinks he won't feel it when they do disappear from his eyes as the feeling in his hands were _numb_.

Regulus put his brush down as he shivered.

Maybe it was because the studio was cold, even if he thinks the room has its own earthy undertones. Sirius laughs at him when he says that. He tells Regulus that his studio was far from cozy, and was nearer to the atmosphere of the dungeons, if their common room was as cold as rumoured. Sirius doesn't complain about it though. About the way Regulus kept his studio. He even says that he's used to it, going as far as saying he was beginning to actually like it.

The temperature goes even cooler as the door was opened, revealing James. "Mind if I intrude?"

Regulus pursed his lips and hastily put the painting of the edelweiss away from James' eyes. After he was done, he turned back to the Gryffindor and motioned him inside. James quickly obliged with a grin on his face. If Regulus noticed that the grin was far too stretched to be genuine, he didn't comment on it.

"What's the matter? Did my brother finally kick you out of his room?"

"Nah, he loves me too much for that," dismissed James. "What? Can't I talk to you without him?"

"You rarely ever do," Regulus answered, a brow upturned.

"You talk like we didn't have our heart-to-heart moments at the Black Lake. _Really_ , Reg, my heart suffers."

Regulus rolled his eyes. "Stop calling them heart-to-heart moments, James. There were more of your dramatics than there were talking."

"Well maybe we'd have more of those talking if you came around the lake more often," James replied, a slight huff and whine to his tone. He looked at Regulus pointedly and asked. "What's with that, anyway? You just suddenly decided not to show up. I _waited_ for you. I don't know, to come by, I guess. To show up. To be there sketching something and listening to me even if I ramble because. Because, you've, uh. You've always been patient."

Regulus opened his mouth but his breath felt like it was stuck in his throat. One one hand he was oddly glad that James cared, that he noticed his absence, that he even waited for Regulus. It felt.. comforting, that even if he wasn't that important to James, he still weighed _enough_ for him to care. On the other hand, he didn't want to say that he felt — felt.. felt _what_ , anyways? He didn't even _know_ what he felt back then when he saw them at the lake. He just — just knew that it _hurt_ , and he didn't want to feel _that_ hurt again, to see _that_ again — so. So he did what he thought he had to. Hide. Avoid. Run away.

"You didn't.. have to wait. Some things just happened. Things I can't understand, or possibly," he's still catching the last of his breath when he says, "Things I don't think I want to figure out."

They fell silent for a while.

"That's okay," James said softly. "That's fine. Time for yourself, and all that. Wish you just.. dunno, wish you just told me. You might deny it, but I think we're friends, and we tell each other these stuff."

Ah. There it was again. Regulus briefly felt like he choked on something but he decided to ignore the superficial feeling and swallow it down. It was just his nerves, he could tell, because James was saying they were friends — or that they knew each other enough to make him call Regulus that. This was alright. Something like this was already enough for Regulus.

"Right. I guess we are," he agreed with a small smile on his face. "I was just confused, at that time. It's fine now." he paused. "And you? How about _you_?"

James just glanced at him ruefully. "Me? What about me?"

"Don't take me for an idiot, James. I'm not." Regulus pursed his lips. "You told me yourself. We're friends, aren't we? And we tell each other ' _these stuff_ '."

"Put my words right back my mouth, why don't you," said James with a small chuckle. "Well. I'm slowly.. getting fine. I can accept it, so I guess that's progress. I just don't think _why_ it happened has sunk in yet, you know."

" _Why_ it happened?" repeated Regulus. "You mean the war? The sides?"

"Yeah," James answered with a sigh. "I mean, I'm out of Hogwarts in a year and some months and I know I'll be seeing more of this fighting firsthand and it's.. it's not the life I thought I'd have." he laughed bitterly. "Not even close."

"I see."

"You probably think I'm naïve for thinking of a good life in the middle of all of this, right?"

"No. No, I don't think you are," Regulus whispered. "I think of one too. Not a good life. Just one where I'm.. where I'm content. Where Sirius is happy. Where I don't really _have_ to hide and, and where.." _where I'm happy no matter where you are._

"That's.. that's good. I didn't think you had one of your views of home, too. I always thought you knew what you wanted to do with your life. Decided. No doubts, no regrets." James murmured with a smile. Genuine, this time. "I guess you're just like the rest of us."

"Like the rest, huh." Regulus said under his breath, contemplating. "Still lost?"

James nodded. "Still lost."

"I guess I am," Regulus conceded, "It's a comfort, belonging to a majority. It makes me feel like I'm not the only one still grappling for a life I can't lead."

"Here's to the life we almost had," James quipped with a rueful smile.

"Hm, here's to that," replied Regulus with a simper of his own. "You're not alone, James. You have people who care for you. There are people out there for you. It's not too late to start planning out that life."

"You too?"

Regulus frowned. "What do you mean?"

"You're here too, right? For me."

 _Ah_. "I— I suppose I am," Once Regulus was able to trust his voice again, he answered. "Yes. I'm here, too."

James let out a sigh. "That's good. You have people too, Reg. People to plan your life with."

"I know I do," Regulus paused. "But I already know how it's going to end. That life, I mean."

"And how would you? Maybe you should start taking your own advice and realize that it's not too late, even for you." James insisted. There was a fire in his eyes when Regulus looked back at him; like he was fighting for a chance. Truth is, they're _all_ fighting for a chance. For an opportunity to map out their future in detail — to not worry about losing your life or losing someone when looking forward. But Regulus knew when he has already lost. He knew by glancing at the flames lit in James' eyes that the life he wants was with him, with that _fire_ , but James' _wasn't_.

That's how he knows that it's too late, even for him. Especially for him.

—

For once, Regulus wasn't in his studio.

Today, he was in the confines of his room, glancing up at the glowing constellations on the ceiling of his room, marks charmed to come to light. He finds his name next to his brother's, the lines almost tangled in one another. The bottom half contained his father's and mother's names, and their corresponding constellation. Walburga's was glowing a faded ivory, while the other three were still alight and ablaze.

It's been a while since Regulus has seen them. Since Regulus has stared at them for long. He remembered that this was once his favorite pastime, just looking at the faux stars decorating the ceiling of his room, littering them with sets of stars. There are other specks of light scattered on the ceiling, too, not just his family's names. And that's when he remembers why this was once how he killed time. The scenery was just _too_ beautiful — like it didn't belong inside Regulus' room because it was of beauty, of magnificence, because it was _bright_ , and _so_ , _so_ , unlike _him_.

He wants to tear up at the feeling of not being enough. Of not being worth it, not to take notice of, because it was Sirius who was _vivid_ and _full_ of life — there was a reason why their mother was so disappointed seeing Sirius waver and disobey. It was because Sirius was full of potential, he was the one deemed worthy enough of carrying the Black surname wherever he goes because it was like he was _born_ for this. For leading. For _grandeur_. While Regulus was best suited to be a reserve — an option.

And Regulus? What did Regulus have?

( _"You've always been patient."_ )

He let out a choked, teary laugh after James' voice filtered through his head.

Patient? He wasn't patient. He just didn't know how to act. How to not let go, give up.

( _"This is beautiful, Reg! How can you do this? You're like— still thirteen!"_ )

Do _what_? The painting? The sketches?

It's not _that_ special. A lot of people could do that. Make beautiful art even younger. It just so happened Regulus has been trying _all his childhood_ to find something he's good at — he's worked _hard_ for it. Practiced and practiced and _practiced_ until he can finally do something _right_ , so it wasn't that good, not that impressive.

( _"You're a good listener, Reg. Even if you do always say I'm an idiot after."_ )

He wasn't.. he _wasn't_ a good listener.

Regulus just knew how to tune people out — not even feeling the slightest bit guilty that he didn't even hear a word they said. He didn't really _care_ , not at all, but he pretended that he did, for the sake of show. Civility. Nevermind that he always listened when it was his brother or James, though, _nevermind_ that he played his favorites when interacting with people. It wasn't his fault some people were just more important.

He wants to feel bad about this; wants to feel guilty, feel regret — but he _doesn't_. He doesn't.

( _"I waited for you."_ )

Please.

He wasn't _worth_ waiting for.

Why did James even bother? Why did he even try? Even mind? Care?

It was just him.

Just Regulus.

The second child, second-in-line, replacement, disappointment.

It makes him sick that he's happy James waited for him. Deemed him enough, maybe, and accepted him as a tentative friend. He felt _sick_ that he's using what he feels to assure himself that there's still someone apart from Sirius who treats him like he's enough. But can you blame him? Can _you_ blame him for being happy on being acknowledged by a person he has unknowingly chased the shadow of? By a person he hangs on every word of? Can you blame him for being happy _just_ for the sake of happiness?

Regulus knows well that he has been crying over one of the most pathetic things in his life. He can't help but to keep on tearing up, though — to keep on superficially drowning himself with his thoughts and _still_ ignoring the scratching of his throat until it hurts and hurts and _hurts_ — and he's choking. Choking on something and he feels like he can't _breathe, breathe, breathe_ —

And he coughs.

( _"It's not too late, even for you."_ )

There's a blood-stained orange petal on his sheets.

Regulus stared at it for a long time.

 _Orange_. And the petal of a _lily_.

An orange lily.

 _Hatred_. _Loathing_. _Contempt_.

Regulus stared at it for _so_ long it made him want to _scream_.

—

Medicine.

 _Medicine_.

Regulus needs medicine. He knows there's potions for suppressing the effects of Hanahaki. He's read about it. He knows it's on the market, drifting on the shelves. It only momentarily stops the growing of the roots inside the lungs, it doesn't cure it, but Regulus doesn't _care_. He just knows he needs it for the pain.

He told himself he won't die just from loving another person ( _too much, so much_ —).

And he knows this isn't like that. This isn't _love_. It's not, not, _not that_ — it isn't, not for James, for the person he's too _late_ for. It's. not. love. It won't be. It _can't_ be.

Right, medicine.

He needs that.

For the pain (James caused—), for the scratching to stop, for the _need_ to scream to just _vanish_. Panic has settled in his veins, in his blood, he realizes, and it makes him run for the library even more.

Maybe his mother has answers.

She had to.

(If she doesn't, Regulus doesn't know what else he'll do.)

Forcing himself to swallow the urge to cough again, Regulus snapped the deep-green silk curtains open. He's met with his mother's eyes again, sharp, cutting. A swirl of degrading stares.

"The medicine," Regulus rasped out.

"How disrespectful, not visiting me for so long and spouting nonsense," Walburga sniffed. "What medicine?"

"For Hanahaki. The medcine that stops the effects. Those potions. How effective are they? You must have tried them before." he opened his palm and showed his mother the petal.

Walburga's eyes snapped into focus. "You utter fool," she spat. "Have you learned absolutely nothing from me? From what I've _become_? Where I ended up?"

"It's not like I chose this!" he spat back. "I didn't.. I didn't _want_ this." he shook his head in an attempt to clear it. "The medicine, mother. I need to know if it works."

" _Choose_ ," Walburga repeated and sneered. "It's not like your heart can choose, right? It's not like you didn't have half a mind!"

"Mother, the potion! We're talking about the potion! You talk like you didn't fall to this.. this _thing_. This _sickness_."

"Of course it _works_. It wouldn't sell if it didn't work, Regulus. It stops the growing — and I presume you know it's not a cure." said Walburga.

"I know it can't cure it," Regulus replied. "The surgery. Why didn't you take the surgery?"

Walburga scoffed. "And risk my death? The surgery has never been safe, idiotic boy. The potions were safer. You can last years and years by them _alone_."

Regulus immediately scraped the idea of taking the surgery away, swallowing, "I see. And, if the medicine could make you last that long, mother, then why didn't you? Why didn't _you_ last for more years?"

"Haven't you said it so before? I acted like a fool," said Walburga with obvious disgust and disdain. "And it cost me my life. I would _not_ die for Orion."

Resigned, Regulus could only nod and swallow another cough. He gripped his throat tight enough to bruise but not strong enough to choke. As he was closing the curtains, Walburga called out to him.

"I told him," she said, uncharacteristically soft. Her tone once again hardened after a moment. "I was surviving with the medicine. But I _told_ him. And because he didn't feel the same way I did, and he told me that, right to my face, the medicine stopped working. I died."

"What do you mean?" Regulus whispered.

Walburga looked at him coldly. "Never tell them."

 _You know what will happen._


	6. i hope you’re well

**06.** _i hope you're well_

* * *

Regulus had read once, in a book — that 'glory never came easy, and love was never free,' — and back then, he couldn't quite picture how the one who wrote it even managed to piece together two words, two phrases that didn't connect.

He, back then, remembered placing the book down and staring into blank space, absorbing the room around him, even though he was too lost in his thoughts to even notice what the floor and walls looked like. He remembered the sigh he produced, after thinking about it for so long and never getting the answer. He remembered how that page felt in his fingers with the texture a far too familiar feeling, and the words a little too strange.

It troubled him that he read that book and finished it with that line still in his mind. It made him uncomfortable, not having answers. It made him tense, antsy — for someone that prided themselves in understanding such things, it never felt right for something to feel so... undecipherable.

Glory was a worn pride. It was a splendor, something like a warcry, yet beatific. Love, however, was something a little bit less, but also a little bit more. It didn't thrive on pride, but on a certain source of warmth. How loud it was depended on you, depended on the way you show your pride in falling. And perhaps, these two concepts of abstract feelings can be compared to one another, that perhaps you can see some similarity — few and almost abysmal as it was — but you can never place them side-to-side and expect a tale. They existed on different sides of the spectrum. Glory and love had nothing to do with each other, because in Regulus' mind, love cannot bring you honor. It cannot serve you such glory.

And so, the line confuses him even more. Glory was not easy, of course. And it will never come as so. And love, as well, had its rightful prices. It had its rightful cost, once taken. Once given. And so it was not free — as much as people who had nothing would like to believe it was.

Each has their rightful point, but it stands that they have nothing to serve as a bridge.

Yet, right now, with Regulus in bed, sick and tired — he finds something to unite the two.

Right now, Regulus — as someone who was not the Regulus of years ago, of yesterday, of even a minute less — can say that with love, there came glory.

With love there came an endless source of pride, swelling deep within. There's going to be something inside of you that will rejoice. Unbelievable as it may be, a part of you will triumph in the feeling of falling. A part of you will realize that _yes, this was hard, and this was a long ride with bumps and thorns and roads unmade; but it was worth it_. And there. That's the moment the glory will come to you like an onslaught. It will be your own moment of revel. And you would own that fall.

(He scoffs at the mention of it alone. It's _not_ love, not _really_. He doesn't think it is. He doesn't think what he's feeling right at this moment is love, like he can even describe it with anything less.

You see — it's _not supposed to be love_. He does not want it to be.

He still wants to live in his own space, guarded of this word. He still wants a little bit of freedom. He still wants to clutch at the remains of himself, before it rides away with this feeling and leaves him be as well.

He keeps on telling himself that this. is _not_. love. He keeps on going on about how that flower petal was not a symbol of such, just a symbol of his idiocy, of his vulnerability.

He keeps on doing this because no one can quite lie to them than themselves.

Regulus wants to choke the feeling down, close it, deny it, wants to push it until it's left to rest, but it makes him feel like a liar.)

Here, is when Regulus realizes that glory indeed never came easy. To even have an inkling of what it feels, he had to face afternoons and nights talking with James at the Black Lake, he had to see him walk away and join Evans, he had to look at his eyes and listen as he waxed poetry about someone else, he had to face and debauch himself on all of that just to feel what it was like to fall. He had to know what it was like to make his fingers go numb, covered in paint and calloused from too much washing, just to claim that bit of glory at the end of the road. If he couldn't have that fire, then he could at least have this. That even if he couldn't reach beyond where he's gone, he could at least say that just having the opportunity to learn how to love was enough.

He had forgotten, though, that this kind of love was not free, like the line had said. That even though in falling there's triumph — there's also a cost.

Regulus figured that it's the reason he's down on his bed clutching an orange petal. He figured that this was the cost. This was the price he's due.

He doesn't know what to make of it.

Was he supposed to regret it? Live in denial forever, like he was just a few minutes ago? Was he supposed to run around in circles, simply trying to tell himself that _no, you have not fallen, not yet, not so fast, not too quickly_ — and not convince himself that those are not all lies?

The fall, actually, was not fast.

If you asked Regulus to describe it, he'd say that it was almost invisible.

Not to say that it felt like it didn't exist, but that it was always there, unseen. It's almost funny how it comes out — a feeling you just knew was there. There's not a grand realization, because there's nothing left to realize. He just knew, in his rumination all those years, that everything was just leading up to this. That every event was predominantly made just for them to end up like they were now.

Always on the verge of waiting.

* * *

The clock felt like it's been ticking for minutes, although there's only been a handful of seconds.

It fuels Regulus' headache, as he took a small sip of the potion Genesis sent. It was the medicine — shipped through their owl correspondence. Regulus had written Genesis, in hopes that he could send them over so he could avoid getting out of the house to buy it himself. He didn't know if he could walk that long without breaking with a cough. When Genesis' owl came with the potions, Regulus already expected a question coming. He'd have to pay Genesis back for the favor, and he knew that he would want information as to why he needed the medicine. Regulus mentally braced himself for his return to Hogwarts.

He's not sure if — if he could open his mouth and say the words — to talk about the things he's only recently admitted out loud. Regulus isn't really sure that he could force himself to speak up about the matters he's only thought of.

There's hope in him, though, that accepting this would be better as the days go by. He hopes that by the year ends, he's already come to terms with coughing up petals for someone, something he never thought he'd do, as it was equal to breaking his promise to himself, all those years ago. He told himself that he would not end up loving someone too much — too badly — that he'd let flowers bloom inside him, wrapping around his lungs, rooted in his ribs. He swore that he'd never let someone dictate when and if he should be saved.

That was his choice to make, and no one was going to take it from him.

Awfully horrific how it was wrenched from his hold so soon.

Sighing, he gathered the potions in his hand and put them in a locked drawer. He carefully made the decision to keep the medicine in his room, for he was the only one who goes in. Unlike the studio, where even if he could consider it entirely his, some could still wander around and find them. It would raise questions he'd rather die than answer.

As Regulus laid on his bed, he feels the potion's burn on his throat, like a numbing sensation.

He puts one hand on his neck as if to feel it, and he almost closes his fingers down, almost grasped his own neck that he'd have trouble breathing, and he's never been more afraid.

Regulus wonders, as he closes his eyes in the lieu of sleep, how long he'd last before he ends all of this on his own.

* * *

"It's already past three in the afternoon, Reg, I think it's time you haul yourself out of bed."

Regulus woke up to that exact set of words, the following day, and Sirius on his bedside.

There wasn't even a knock.

The younger Black sibling only groaned, pushing one foot off the covers to subtly shove Sirius out of the room. Sirius didn't even move an inch, though, much to Regulus' irritation. He only watched Regulus trying hard to move his foot, half-asleep.

Once he decided that he's had enough of a show, he tugged on Regulus' arm. "Come on, you never sleep in. It's a miracle you overslept. You're missing meals, Reggie, and it's not good for your health."

Has Regulus ever told you how much he hates it when Sirius begins to act like an older brother and a nutritionist at the same time? Because he thinks it's time he did.

"Guess I have no choice but to yell at your ear, then," Sirius mutters.

And just like that, Regulus is up. It's a sloppy movement, filled with rush and haste, but it's a given that he'll be prompt at a time like this. Sirius nagging was already a difficult job to ignore and handle, but Sirius yelling? That's another story altogether.

"Alright, I'm already awake. What—" a yawn, "more do you need from me?"

"I need you to eat something, at least. Food's reheated downstairs. I haven't eaten and neither has James, so we're all going to be having lunch in the afternoon," says Sirius. Regulus felt like the morning, or afternoon, more like, has already worn him out after the mention of James. He didn't need another reminder of the reason his body didn't seem like it wanted to wake up any time soon.

"Really, Reg, there's no need to look so forlorn. I think it sounds _great_." he continued, beaming.

Regulus looked at his brother long-sufferingly.

Right. Great.

"Bringing out the big words, are we?"

"Hah. Thank Remus for that. I've been spending way too much time around him that I even pick up his words." And, you see, there's a way Sirius smiles at the mention of Remus' name alone, the way the skin around his eyes crinkle a little bit, and his eyes seem a bit softer. It makes Regulus' chest clench, because it told him that that was how it felt to fall without the cost of flowers blooming.

He feels the urge to cough, but it's choked back by a burning sensation, and it takes Regulus a moment to realize that it was the potion's doing.

Regulus shakes himself out of his daze.

"Seems like I really have to thank Remus for expanding your vocabulary," came Regulus' reply after a short while.

Sirius paused, as well, noticing his delay, but chose to ignore it, and only looked at Regulus oddly for a couple of seconds. "Make sure to come down after you're ready, alright, Reg? Food's ready."

Regulus nodded and shot his brother a grateful look on his way out. Sirius responded with a gentle smile, understanding.

As Regulus washed his face in the sink, he found it hard not to cry and let his tears fade into the water.

* * *

Miraculously, Regulus manages to go downstairs and sit opposite James. It's hard to even look at him, because catching even a glimpse already hurts enough, and it makes his heart constrict. For all that the medicine does indeed work, he's not sure if the dose he took would hold out just in case he feels a strong need to cough.

They don't talk much through the whole meal, surprisingly. Sirius and James, of course, shared words, and if there were some talking that happened it would have only been the two of them. Regulus drowned pretty much any other sound, and then promptly excused himself after eating a few mouthfuls to retreat at his studio. Sirius, albeit reluctantly, let him go once he saw that he finished his plate.

James, even though he only stared at him as he went, felt like he was burning holes through him the way Regulus has been overly sensitive about each and every action he's made throughout the whole course of the meal.

Regulus was glad that he made it out of there alive.

And now, he's here, at his studio, staring at another empty canvas. He didn't really feel like painting — there's not much drive in his hands to hold a brush right at that moment. It's just a habit, propping up a canvas even though he knew he'd leave it untouched. It's been a routine, of sorts, one he does to ruminate. And even thinking is difficult. Every thought ends up back to where James is — to where Hanahaki resides deep in his mind, a topic he dares not venture.

And as if he was called, James decides to enter the room unannounced.

It leaves Regulus scampering for his words.

"What are you—"

"Am I not welcome?" asks James, before Regulus could even finish.

"You could have knocked! Merlin, you and my brother are the same."

James held up his hands in defense and surrender all at once, and pointed at the door hanging ajar. "It was left open, so I came in. Were you so much in a hurry that you forgot to even, you know, close it?"

That was the moment when Regulus realized that he did, indeed, leave the door open. He closed his eyes briefly and inhaled, he's been too tense lately. His nerves are on their way to going haywire, and he doesn't know how to feel about it. He feels like whatever he's built for himself will fall apart this week or the next.

It might even be today.

James notices his struggle and silence, so he plows on. "You don't seem fine today. Are you okay?"

"Quite," Regulus replied.

"You're sure?"

Regulus looked at James pointedly. "Yes, I am sure."

James laughed lightly at that. "You're snapping far too early. I don't think you're okay, Reg."

"So what if I'm not?" says Regulus back. Really, so what if they were right? He was not, in the least bit, okay, or anything even close to that term. Was it not acceptable that he was trying to mask it, to hide it? Save himself some face?

It's the second time Regulus has clipped at him, but James only smiles. "You can tell someone, you know."

"Like you?"

James shrugged. "If that's fine with you. But someone, in general. So that it feels a little less heavy," he paused, afterwards, seeming to find his words. "It helped with me, when I talked about my parents with Sirius, and with you about the future."

"Talking. That's your solution to this," Regulus concluded, and it felt ridiculous. How could he talk about his problem to the one causing the exact problem?

"No it's not— okay, not a solution, more of a, a thing to lessen the burden. Emotions are heavy, they kind of, well, take a huge amount of space right there in your mind. It's going to weigh you down," James attempted to describe it, making gestures with his hands. "And because it weighs you down, you should let go of some of it."

Regulus mulls his words over in his head.

Let go? How exactly could he let go of even a little bit of this? He doesn't know if he could just open up his mouth right then and there and not say that 'you. it's you. you're my problem,' and not end up regretting everything later.

Maybe, in a weird kind of sense, this would help.

"Okay, then. Share some things with me, if that's the case. You're in love with Lily Evans, aren't you? Have you ever, even once, considered that feeling heavy? Too much?"

"How did this conversation go to Lily and me?"

Regulus just gave him a look

James returned it, but conceded with a sigh.

"You know, with Lily — I don't think it's reached the point where I could call it love. I mean, I could easily say the words, curl around them, but I don't think — well. I've never, really, thought about it. So I guess, because I've never come to terms with it myself, I haven't considered what I felt for her, be it love or just turns out to be some like, heavy. It's more of an... outlet," he pauses to think. "An outlet of all the love I wish I could give, I guess."

Hearing all that made Regulus unsure. If James, who he saw as a person who felt strongly — who felt wholly with this heart, has never come to terms with confirming all that he's felt for years, then how would he do it? How did he do it?

It made Regulus unsure. It made him waver, falter. Made him doubt in what he felt.

"I didn't get what you were saying at all," Regulus supplied. And it's a sentence that covers how he thought about what James had said. There's a vague understanding there, that comprehends at least a bit of what he's trying to say, but Regulus doesn't truly have an inkling of what it conveys, much less what it actually means.

James just laughed. "It's a bit confusing, so I get where you're coming from. It's not that my feelings aren't genuine — I'm just not sure of them, you know. I felt like I have been for years, and I've admitted to the feelings I have too much to count but it feels like more of a routine. I don't think it's supposed to invalidate how I feel, though."

Ah.

And it feels like Regulus was beginning to understand, starting to scratch the surface of what James was saying. It's not groundbreaking. It's just James, being so like himself — someone who has decided that it's okay for him to feel a certain thing and still question himself from time to time, someone that gives himself the right space to think and breathe and stop.

And it utterfly floors Regulus how he could so calmly state that being rootless and hesitant does not mean that he doesn't recognize his feelings exist.

He's having reservations, but he knows how he feels.

While Regulus, even though he has already admitted it, has already known it — he has never claimed this feeling.

He realizes, as he looks into James Potter's eyes that afternoon, that it seems like he never really took glory after his fall.

(He had convinced himself of the glory behind this kind of love, this kind of madness. But he never really felt it.

Ah, it made him feel like a liar.)

* * *

[s.] _ah, yes. i am alive. surprise._


	7. too young to understand

**07.** _too young to understand_

* * *

And, as always — time continued on its blurry march.

The clock just keeps on ticking, and to be completely honest, Regulus is scared. He's afraid and tired and sick. He's counting the days after he threw up the lilies and he curses the concept of time indefinitely. He's barely out of his room now — and he knows Sirius has noticed. He can see it in his glances he sends to him at meals, and no matter how Regulus says it's nothing when Sirius asks, he doesn't let it go. These are the times he knew that Sirius did know him the most, that he could see through the lies Regulus has built. But he accepts it, gives him space, lets him ruminate. James gives him looks too, question in his eyes, though more subtly, like he wasn't sure if he'd be prying or not. Regulus finds that fact relieving, like a burden off his shoulders. Because he knew, in his fresh addled mind, that if James ever asked, he would answer. Always.

And he can't afford to be that vulnerable.

Not in front of the person he's throwing up all these flowers for like a man starved of love.

(And it's wrong, really. Regulus was not a man. Not yet, at least. He's just a boy, just a helpless speck of dust. He's not supposed to feel like this. He's not supposed to love someone in a way that his entire life depended on them.

Because Regulus could live without James' love. He could survive. He didn't need them returned, given back, or even acknowledged.

He could live without James Potter, but the flowers blooming in his lungs could not.)

It's funny how things completely changed over time, over the beginnings of when he talked to James Potter, over the moments when he began to let go of the guards he's been keeping up and letting this dangerous, bright, blinding man in; and Regulus didn't even notice.

He didn't even notice James slowly seeping into his life seamlessly, like he was born to. He didn't even notice that every time the late afternoon breaks, he's always looking for James in the crowd, hoping he'd be making a beeline for the Black Lake. And when he did, everything else simply didn't exist. (The body of water by their feet didn't seem to be that big at all. The dragonflies sitting on the rocks and shifting on the grass would appear to still. The wind blows but it's silent. The leaves rustle but they are all mere whispers, compared to them. They're just two boys; existing quietly, but James' presence was something too loud for Regulus not to hear.)

All of this started while he was growing up, unaware. All of this began in motions, like a set of clocks. Like a deliberate tick on the hands.

And that's when it hits Regulus.

That's when the fact that he — a boy of fifteen — was growing up. Granted, he's fifteen and still figuring out how the world works, but he's… been growing up all this time without it actually sinking in. And right now, the realization digs its sharp pointed nails deep into his skin and marks the outlines of his bones, like a reminder that he's not going to be a child forever and that the world is moving on. Regardless if he's with it or not.

If you asked him to look back now, he'd see himself, five, eyes welling up because everyone in the house felt like they were all angry and bitter and mad. Then he's eight and numb as he sees his mother's coffin being pulled down and buried and disappears into the ground like she never even existed. Next, he's a month away from eleven, holding a paintbrush in the middle of colouring the eyes of James Potter and smudging them out of frustration. He'd be sitting on a stool, after that, just staring into the mess he created and then packing it up for the day.

He'd see himself, full of passion and drive and inspiration, young, even younger than he was now and he feels like curling into himself because it all felt like yesterday.

He's not five, eight, or ten anymore. He's fifteen. And it's not a daunting age. He hasn't seen what the world has to offer for him yet. He's not even a legal adult — but he's tired. And even more so as the days go by.

The world around Regulus is moving on, he realizes. Sirius has been considering his career choices. James had talked to him about having a settled life after he graduated. There were whispers of war. There has been victims. There has been a change.

The world has moved. Is changing.

So, why, Merlin forbid, was Regulus still stuck here?

Why was he still chained to these musings, to these thoughts? Why does he keep looking back when everyone's already moving forward? Why didn't he realize that no one was going to wait for him?

Why does he keep on holding on to memories that make everything else at the present even more ridiculous? Why does the fact that he, Regulus, was ten — a sum of ten — when he first began to be pulled in James Potter's orbit, and he only deigned to realize and remember it five years later? Because as it is, this pull was like a natural force of gravity, alike with his free fall, and he didn't even suspect a single thing.

This was dangerous. This was not supposed to happen.

Regulus might not have a plan built for himself yet, but he had a future waiting for him. And this was a love he could not afford.

* * *

Regulus hasn't been keeping track of the days anymore. One day, the curtains fluttered and the sun shone too brightly, and then the holiday break is over.

He finds himself numb in the middle of the platform, in spite of the students hustling around. He sees James laughing with his brother as they walk towards him after greeting people and his throat burns. It aches and he knew he didn't hide his wince of pain fast enough for Sirius to not notice, if his eyes narrowing was any indication. He mentally prepares himself.

When they stopped in front of him, there's a string of silence for a few seconds, until Sirius broke it. "Are you sure you're okay, Reg? Completely? You didn't talk and get out of your room for like, a week and a half. Not even to go to your studio."

"I'm fine," Regulus insisted.

"I asked out of courtesy, but you're not. I clearly saw you scrunch your face in pain a moment ago. What's happening? Are you hurt somehow?"

"Really, it's nothing. And even if there was something, this wouldn't be the right place to talk about it, Sirius," replied Regulus with a pointed look at his brother. Sirius acquiesced, but there was a look in his eyes that told him they were going to talk about this later.

"You know, I am also worried, so if you could please insert me in whatever you're going to talk about that'd be fantastic," James chimed in. Hearing his voice made Regulus clam up immediately, making his throat itch and his mouth void of words. It made Regulus feel wrong.

"Exclusive sibling rights only, Jamie, and you are only a leech trying to steal my brother from me," said Sirius, sticking a tongue out. James just punched him lightly on the shoulder.

"Regulus loves me more than you Pads, so I don't know about that," James replied jokingly, and this time Sirius looked vaguely offended by his claim. He turned to Regulus swiftly, cracking his neck.

"Bullshit. Of course not, right, Reg?" exclaimed Sirius. "I mean, look at James. He's not even as handsome as I am. Have you seen this face?"

And Regulus, in a fit of a haze, did not even hear his brother's question.

(Regulus loves me more than you, Pads.)

He feels like he suddenly wants to laugh.

Because James has no idea how much he actually does, only in a different way how he loves Sirius like a brother and James like the sun he hasn't seen for so long it makes him dizzy just by their mere presence, steps, voice.

(And it's a painful, hurtful thing.)

* * *

Regulus is left alone in a compartment after separating with Sirius and James. The train's running now, and every second he spends thinking, it gets closer and closer to Hogwarts.

It scares him.

He's not even remotely ready to walk the hallways with a fear of flowers surging up his throat, pooling out of him in an imitation of bouquets, despite knowing that as long as he takes the potions, this would not happen and he will only feel the burn lined in his throat.

He's not ready to walk the hallways of Hogwarts with a garden on fire settled deep in his lungs.

"Finally found you," a voice suddenly chipped in. It was Genesis.

"Congratulations on not getting lost," Regulus commented as he went back to gazing outside the window, in an attempt to play his nervousness off.

"Hm, don't be like that. You owe me," he reminds. "So, what is it?"

Regulus does not know what he meant by that. He thought he'd ask who it was, surely. Or jump right in to the favor he owes him for the potions. "What's what?"

"The flower."

Ah. "Why do you need to know? I thought you'd straight up ask for the person," Regulus deflects.

"Sorry for the disappointment, then," said Genesis as he shrugged. "But still. The flower. It says a lot about the circumstances, I hear. I'm just curious of what it is for you. Out of anyone I would've thought would suffer from this, it wasn't you."

(He didn't think he would, either.)

"You're not going to stop, are you?" Genesis replied with a shake of his head. "Lilies. Orange lilies."

"Huh. That's… unexpected. Don't lilies symbolize purity?"

Regulus hummed. "In general, yes, the white ones do. But the meanings vary per color, as does each flower. Orange means hatred, and some form of resentment."

Genesis gave him a look after he said that. It was like he couldn't fathom what Regulus just told him, like he knew something he didn't. Like he missed something. "Hatred? Really, Regulus? You love this person, and you're throwing up flowers out of what, anger? Contempt? And have you ever thought about why?"

That was something Regulus didn't have an answer for. "Genesis, please. I didn't ask for a therapist."

"Clearly you need one, so I don't particularly care," Genesis leaned back on the train seat with a huff. "The favor I'm calling in is to tell me who this is."

"You're going to waste your favor on that?"

"All your talk isn't going to sway me, Reg."

"When we get back to the dorms, I'll tell you." Regulus conceded with a sigh. Genesis grinned at him triumphantly from across.

When they settled in the Great Hall, Regulus blocked out the noise. He concentrated instead on his food, little as his mouthfuls were, and found himself thinking on Genesis' words back on the train halfway.

(You love this person, and you're throwing up flowers for them out of what, hatred? Contempt? And have you ever thought about why?)

And it's — it's true, really. When Regulus saw the flowers, all he thought about was their appearance, their name. Lily. Like a blatant reminder that he'd remain unloved and the rest unreachable. He'd registered how it looked on the surface, with orange as the colour of hatred on the lilies, and with his mind a mess of anger with himself and abhorrent with the world altogether, it wasn't hard not to disregard it.

So why was it hatred, really? Why was his flower such a potent feeling, something he doesn't think he's ever known before intimately, truly?

He's familiar with anger, with disappointment, with insecurity, with sadness, with tiredness, with annoyance — but hatred was a stranger.

And so, Regulus thinks, perhaps he just hated his situation. Perhaps he just hated how awfully dependent and vulnerable it made him. How it made him feel like glass, broken at the littlest nudges if he wasn't yet and fragility written on the expanse of his skin, like a brand.

Another was perhaps he hated how it forced him to realization. How sudden it came and changed his views, turning his world upside down like it wasn't arranged so difficultly in the first place. It made him feel like he was not in control of his own life. It made him feel like he's been robbed with a decision he should have made himself when he was ready to sink into this feeling.

This hatred of his in lieu of a flower could be thrown around and interpreted in a way that completely differs from his beliefs, but, really—

—he thinks that maybe he just hated how he knew this love would bring him ruin in the long run.

* * *

Once they got back into their dorm, Genesis immediately looked at him expectantly, and Regulus only stared.

He sat down on his bed first, and made Genesis do the same before he looked at him from the distance between them. There was a silence, one waiting for the other to speak. And Regulus broke it. "James Potter."

For a second, Genesis was confused. "I don't know how he fits into thi— ah. Ah." When it sunk in, Genesis paused for about a minute or two. It looked like he was thinking and letting the information process at the same time.

"What," he finally uttered out.

Regulus raised a brow. "Eloquent."

"Will you shut up for a second, Reg, because I have no idea how that happened," Genesis exclaimed. "You? Potter? What the bloody fuck?"

"Salazar, Genesis. Your language," chided Regulus.

"That is what you're worried about? I've never even seen you talk to each other, and now this happens?"

"Is it so outrageous?" questioned Regulus. "Besides, we talk. You just don't happen to see it."

Genesis snorted. "When would you even have time to talk with him—" he paused. "—Regulus. He's who you see at the Lake isn't he?"

"How do you even know I see someone at the Black Lake?"

"Not the point," Genesis deflects as he waved his right hand. "Point is, you've been seeing James Potter, a Gryffindor, a bloke, in love with Lily Evans and the whole Wizarding World knows about it at the Black Lake for consecutive years and now you're throwing up flowers for him? Pardon me for saying this overwhelms me a bit."

"Is it so hard to believe we're friends?"

"Friends, okay," Genesis rolled his eyes. "For him, maybe. But how about you, then? How about what you feel from all this?"

That quieted Regulus for a moment. "I don't know yet."

(And it's true, he realizes. James and he — they're friends, and that's something they've claimed between them, so that's safe. That's something Regulus can hold on to in moments like this.

He wonders, for a brief moment, if he wanted more. If he wanted something other than what they already have, other than what they are. And he doesn't know the answer to that. He doesn't know if he'd take the risk because it's not like he truly knows how to love at all and return that. It's not as if he knows how to care for someone and show it.)

After he said that, he looked away when Genesis' eyes at him turned soft and sad and pitying — for he needs no more to remind him just how little he knew about himself.

* * *

The day couldn't have gone by even faster, in Regulus' opinion.

He felt like he was only drifting through the lessons, body present but the mind in another plane; like he wasn't even there to begin with. It's not a new feeling, really, because this has happened to him more times than he could count but this — this was when he felt like he was actually out of touch with his surroundings. This was when he felt like he could reach a hand out to tap at the wooden tables and not feel anything but coldness and numbness.

He thinks that this was what fading felt like.

A gradual wave of long nights and shorter days. A feeling of absence. Then it just hits. The dawning fact that you're feeling nothing by the second and by the minute.

And as his feet carried him to the Black Lake that empty hollow afternoon, he sees James already there, alone, and he feels like he's beginning to feel something at the edge of his fingertips. A burn, a flicker. (Something he could feel.)

"You're early," he comments as he drops down the grass next to James.

The Gryffindor just grinned at him and looked back at the ripples forming on the surface of the lake. "I missed the quiet."

"Was Sirius too loud, then?"

James laughed. "He's too everything," and frankly, Regulus agreed.

A string of silence followed that exchange, and Regulus found the lapse in between comforting. James hums and for a moment, it's only his voice Regulus can hear. There's no brush of the wind in his ears, no rippling of water, no rustle of leaves.

"Back at Grimmauld, were you really okay?" asked James, breaking the quietude.

Regulus was kind of expecting this sort of question, but he takes his time to answer the question nonetheless. "I wasn't," he admitted, while looking into James' eyes directly. There was still something questioning in those eyes, but it disappeared gradually. "But I'm okay now."

"You mean that?"

When James asked that, he looked away. He drank in the scenery befalling them that moment; the sun seemed to be swallowed by the water, causing a haze of yellow orange dusting the lake as small waves begin to fold. The dragonflies are gone. The wind no longer blows in their direction, so the leaves have gone silent.

And they're still there.

Regulus took a deep breath and said, "Yes," then he flashed the smallest of smiles. "I mean it."

(And that was a lie.)


	8. sing it out of me

**08.** _sing it out of me_

* * *

James, for all that Regulus claimed that his flowers were for, has always been, in more ways than one, a stranger.

You must think it ridiculous. You must think it contradictory. When stretched and overreached — impossible. How could you, after all, love a man you do not know?

Ah, you see. Regulus asks himself the same thing.

Because it _is_ ridiculous. It's ridiculous how he's only seen so few of James Potter and dubbed himself in love. It's ridiculous how he thinks love equates to the sound of James' laughter. To, maybe, his small smiles. Not the one where he flashes his teeth, all of them building up neat rows and as blinding as they come. James' small smiles were perhaps, one of the few things Regulus did know about him. He knows it's the one the Gryffindor uses when he thinks no one's looking, it's the one he wears on his face when he thinks he shouldn't smile at something he heard or saw, it's the one you know is genuine, it's the one that made Regulus trip and fall. (It's also a ridiculous thing that he only puts it upon when no one's there to look, because Regulus was always baited by the reminder of his presence. There was no way he was never, ever looking.)

And sure, he knows how James looks first thing in the morning. He knows that his hair forms wilder curls when he wakes up. He knows James prefers his tea warm, and not steaming hot. He knows James' favourite colour was between the shades of yellow and orange — a seriously horrendous tint of orange, and it never fails to make Regulus scrunch his nose up in disgust. He knows James was actually almost sorted for Hufflepuff by the boy's own slip of the tongue. He knows facts. He knows the littlest of details.

What he did not know was how James looked like behind another's eyes. He did not know how James fits in someone else's frame of vision without clouding it with his entirety, as he always did Regulus'. He did not know how to look at James Potter and not see someone who was made to form his ruin, and build him up in the process. He did not know how to look at James Potter and simply see a Hogwarts student, a Gryffindor, a Chaser, a sixteen year old boy. He did not know how to look at James Potter and see a man. _Just_ a man.

(Because he's always been so much more.

Regulus hates to think of it, but he's always seen James beyond just being a man; beyond just the fickle expanse of his skin.

It's awful, he knows. He's aware James would have preferred it if he wasn't put in the pedestal Regulus was putting him in. That James would have wanted himself to come off as a real, genuine and human of flaws with his mistakes riding up on his collars and tracing the veins on his wrist. James would have liked it better when he was a man of shortcomings — because that meant he was existing honestly.)

Regulus hated the fact that he did not truly know James. He only has what he makes of him.

Within these lines, Regulus likes to think that James was a… passing stranger.

One he undoubtedly saw once and perhaps never again. And from that day on he always knew he'd have a life forever entranced by their makeshift existence, by the way they walked when they met, by the way he looked when they first looked upon each other; maybe even the miniscule detail of their cheeks, if it sinks more to a corner than one side.

And, maybe, that's the reason why he painted him. Maybe that's how Regulus of a meager of ten summers figured he'd immortalize this passing stranger of his. Maybe he thought that by besmirching James Potter on the surface of his canvas he'd have his own way of knowing him, of alloting himself the benefit of breaking the word stranger, picking it apart with the tips of his paintbrush.

Regulus likes to think that James was his passing stranger.

Not one to speak to, but one to think of.

* * *

"You're a miserable sod."

"That's not any of your business, Genesis."

The boy in question just scoffed, flopping back down on his bed and wrapping himself up in his covers. "It kind of is, now, because I'm willing to bet I'm the only one who knows about your flowers."

Regulus rose an eyebrow, not even looking up from his Transfiguration textbook. "What makes you think Sirius doesn't know?"

"He's too close to Potter, of course," Genesis replied, with an undertone of 'duh' in his voice. "Plus he seems overprotective. You wouldn't be able to hear the end of it, if ever."

It annoyed Regulus that Genesis was right in his assumptions.

Sirius, though he knew would have respected his decision not to tell James, would have made plans of his own for things to work out in Regulus' favor. He'd set things up. He'd talk to James with the purpose of wrangling out his opinion on Regulus. He knew his brother thinks he's subtle (and, really, sometimes he _could_ be, but only when he doesn't know it), but he isn't.

"You're right," said Regulus begrudgingly, the words almost caught on the tips of his teeth. "But it really isn't something I want you commenting on."

"I can't have a say?"

"You're not allowed a say."

"And here I thought we were friends."

"It's a nice thought," Regulus replied. "Not that accurate, though."

Genesis threw him a pillow after that comment, something he always does when he wanted to shut Regulus up. Regulus just dodged. "I'm not giving that pillow back to you."

Genesis just let out a 'ha.' " _Accio_ pillow," the object flew past Regulus' back by an inch and landed on Genesis' bed with a flop. "Spells exist, genius."

Regulus rolled his eyes. "It's funny how you throw things around and just Accio them back to you. It's so _incredibly_ lonely, like playing with yourself."

"Well, _maybe_ if you just cooperated."

"I'm not eleven to have mini pillow fights."

"Merlin above, it's not a pillow fight. You're just going to throw the pillow back at me. It's the proper response."

"Dodging exists, genius."

"You think you're slick, using my words against me," Genesis narrowed his eyes. "I'm going to throw you a bed next time, prat. Let's see how you dodge _that_."

Regulus snorted softly. "As if your goo for arms could carry a bed."

"Ever heard of Wingardium Leviosa, Reg? You sure you're a wizard?"

"It's nice how you think you can lift a bed but not a feather."

Genesis let out an offended sound. "It was first year! I was _eleven_!"

"There's not much difference, is there?"

"I will hex you while you sleep." Genesis hissed.

"Mm, of course you will."

"Ah, I hate you," Genesis claimed without much heat. "I'll pester you with your problems next time."

"Try never," suggested Regulus as he closed his Transfiguration textbook and put it on the surface of his bedside drawer.

Genesis just mumbled something under his breath and proceeded to tuck himself in deeper in his covers, as if he could tune the world out by sinking to his sheets. If only.

With Genesis asleep, their dormitory is silent. It's so silent you can almost hear the soft current of the water, the lake's waves folding subtly and neatly. It's not much of a gurgle-like sound, more of a kind rumble underneath. It's one of the best things in the Slytherin dormitories; the beyond a magical feel of the illusion of being underwater. And, technically, they are. They're surrounded by the lake, submerged deep down in the dungeons. Some who've caught wind of it have frequently commented on how eerie it was, mostly the Gryffindors, of course, but very few Slytherins find it as such.

Regulus might like it too much, really. He finds that if he could replicate this environment, he would. It would be a thrill to paint in his studio with this kind of atmosphere. He'd be done with a lot of things, for sure.

Because, you see, Regulus hasn't painted much these days.

It's different from when he found his hands numb and his mind dry. It's different from when it was back then. Back then, he felt the chill clinging to his bones, like it'd never leave, like it'd solidify in frozen cracks that would be marred with vines like scars. Back then, his mind had gone dry, bereft of the passion of creation, like his creativity was cut open and hollowed out entirely.

This time, it's not the absence of certain things that bother him, it's their presence that constantly keeps him from touching the brush.

There's the presence of flames like fiendfyre corrupting his lungs, the presence of lilies that was too close to James' shade of orange rooted in his core; never to leave, the presence of blood on the cracks of his teeth; iron left as an aftertaste.

They're all… _too much_. They fill Regulus' days in a whirring sort of motion, one that does not stop however you may will it, because it's not something you can wish to ride away, much like his feelings of old.

Regulus cannot touch the brush and dip it in colour without getting reminded of the burn lined on his throat, a damning throb shot through like glass. It'll hurt — it _did_ hurt, for the record, along with the stems crawling up his ribs. It feels like there's veins constricting the jagged outline of his skeleton, breaking his bones, and then the pain will come, an onslaught of a sick, disgusting feeling of love it made Regulus want to throw up a miniature garden of lilies fresh with blood and be _so so_ tired he'd finally be allowed to rest.

But it's not something he can afford the luxury of. He can't will himself to rest when he wants to, he can't give himself a proper shut-eye when he deems it needed.

The burn would not let him. The flowers would wake him. The blood would forcefully dig him up the covers.

He _hates_ it.

He _hate_ — _hate_ — _hates_ it.

For this was one of the few things he had for himself. One he conjured up on his own. A presence he himself was responsible for. He gave himself _this_. Painting. Art. This was _his_. This was his alone, you realize, because he built this up himself, he dug it raw with his hands, calloused them rough with the wood against his palm.

When he paints, he's just Regulus. Not a Black, not the spare, not someone's brother, someone's friend, someone's classmate. When he paints, he's not a fifth-year Slytherin. When he paints, he's not the jaded fifteen year old boy, for the years fade away with every stroke.

When he paints, he wasn't the Regulus who loved James Potter so desperately he grew a poison of flora in his lungs.

And now that it's gone, he finds it hard to figure out who he is.

* * *

Mornings are a blur.

The sun doesn't reach them below, and only streaks of light come through. It's difficult to differentiate the moonlight when it shoots the lake in curves and the sunlight when the dawn breaks.

It's always hard to tell the time when you seem to be underwater, isolated from the foreground and not high up in the skies, not situated in a tower where you could see how the sky changed.

" _Tempus_ ," he casted in a whisper, and finds that it's six in the morning.

He groans, and settles back down in his covers. He feels awful. His throat is sore, and his head is throbbing. Oddly, he doesn't feel like he's burning up. His breaths only come quick and shallow, like he'd run out of air.

The potion had dried out, for it's a new day, and so Regulus didn't resist the almost blinding urge to cough. He turns over, head facing the concrete, and his body blows in racks. There's lilies all over the floor, fresh and disgustingly orange. He finds it horrendous, although there were only a few droplets of blood that came with them. Relief pierces through Regulus in turn.

Wiping his mouth with a shudder, he took his wand from his bedside table as he forces himself up, his knees shaking subtly, and he leans on his bed frame for support. The wood knocked with his waist and slightly hit the bone of his hip, and he winces in pain.

Though still unable to walk without a visible limp in his steps, Regulus made his way to the bathroom. He brushed his teeth so hard it almost bled and washed the insides of his mouth more times than he could count until he couldn't taste the blood lingering on his tongue.

Regulus shut his eyes for a moment, and then the sound of static fills his ears. There's white on the corner of his eyes, blinding and aching. He swallows down a shiver and Accio'ed his clothes from the rack, hanging it on the silver hooks by the wall. He pays the lilies clumped on the floor beside his bed no mind, and hopes Genesis does the same as he washed himself, the water running down his body, carving out his shoulder blades — a distraction on his shuddering skin.

When he finished, Genesis was still asleep, buried in his blanket. Regulus shakes his head and let out a raspy chuckle, heading for the vials in his cabinet. He takes one and chucks it in his robes, heading for the kitchens. He passed by at least three students in the common room, one beside the window where you could see the lake, and two on the couches, half-awake.

There are only a few out and about in this hour, and it made navigating the castle and avoiding people's gazes much easier, especially when he looks like he'd keel over any second, bags under his eyes and a limp in his step, disguised to seem as if it was normal.

He rubbed the pear as he reached the kitchens, a sigh escaping his lips. If only he didn't need food in him to digest the potion, really.

Regulus entered the room and nodded to the house elves inside, all of them busy with preparing breakfast due in less than two hours. He startled when he found Sirius seated on the wooden bench, munching on a treacle tart.

Ah, fuck.

Why was he here? It's _early_. He doesn't wake up this early, ah, shit — how would he drink his potion like this?

While he was panicking internally, his older brother seemed to take notice of him. "Reg!" he called, as their eyes met. One pair was lit up in merry, and the other was just resigned. Sirius' brows drew together the longer he looked at Regulus, and the latter cursed all deities above in his head. "You look like you're one step away from the grave. What happened to you?"

Regulus waved a hand, an action he regretted immediately, for it was shaking. "Just… just the morning. I don't like it."

Sirius raised an unbelieving brow, eyes following his hand. "Uh-huh, but you're a morning person, so try to come up with a better excuse next time," he flicked Regulus' forehead when he sat down on his left. "You've been like this since the end of hols. Now you look even worse."

The Slytherin could only sigh, the breath coming out with a telltale cough that Regulus fought with all his will to swallow. He always lied badly when it was Sirius he was speaking to, because he was often a better liar than this. He unconsciously just couldn't keep things from his older brother without only avoiding the matter altogether.

"I — things, stuff," he forced out, voice hoarse.

"Things. Stuff," Sirius deadpanned. "Your voice is shit."

"Thanks, I didn't notice," Regulus murmured with a roll of his eyes.

"Look, Reggie. Seriously, what's going on? Why can't you tell me?" Sirius asked, the hunch in his shoulders visible. It choked a feeling out of Regulus when he looked at Sirius' eyes, it tore him apart to see hurt reflected in them, hurt and concern and worry mixed together in a flurry of emotions that was so Sirius. But he couldn't say it. He couldn't. _Can't_.

"You know I trust you," Regulus softly breathed. He hopes, in his heart, that that was enough, but he knew it wasn't.

"You do, of course," agreed his older brother. "But _why_ can't you tell me?" he repeated.

Regulus bit his lip until it swell, steam rising in his eyes. "I'm sorry." he croaked out, voice coming out broken and torn.

Sirius sighed, a deep one, and Regulus knew by then that he understood. "Okay. Tell me when you're ready. _Please_. I hate seeing you like this."

And Regulus almost burst into tears, then, thanking whoever brought Sirius to him, and he thinks somberly, _how does he deserve this_?

"Thank you. Thank you, Siri. I, I swear. I'll tell you when I'm ready." Merlin, he was so lucky to have his brother in his life.

"Don't swear me that," said Sirius. "Swear to me that you won't let this go too far. Whatever this is."

Tears pricked on the corner of his eyes, and he ducked his head, placed it on Sirius' shoulder, like he did when they were kids. "I swear I won't let it go too far."

He felt Sirius smile, then. A sad one, he thinks, and he hates the fact that he caused that. But it's also a smile that showed he understood, and that he respected what Regulus wanted. Sirius cradled the back of his head and sang a song softly, and it calmed Regulus down, broke the signs of coughs building on his throat for a meanwhile.

"You're going to be okay," murmured Sirius in between his humming. "You're going to be okay."

Regulus, for once, thought that he would, really, be able go through this.

For Sirius made it easier to believe.

* * *

Passing stranger! you do not know how longingly I look upon you,

You must be he I was seeking, or she I was seeking, (it comes to me, as of a dream,)

I have somewhere surely lived a life of joy with you,

All is recall'd as we flit by each other, fluid, affectionate, chaste, matured,

You grew up with me, were a boy with me, or a girl with me,

I ate with you, and slept with you—your body has become not yours only, nor left my body mine only,

You give me the pleasure of your eyes, face, flesh, as we pass—you take of my beard, breast, hands, in return,

I am not to speak to you—I am to think of you when I sit alone, or wake at night alone,

I am to wait—I do not doubt I am to meet you again,

I am to see to it that I do not lose you.

— _To a Stranger_ , Walt Whitman


End file.
